Witness Protection Problem
by littlemusings
Summary: AU. After witnessing a murder, Kurt Hummel and his family are forced to join the government's Witness Protection Program and move from New York to Ohio with new identities. Who knew Blaine Anderson would make it hard for him to blend in? Klaine. badboy!B.
1. Edited Information

_Hi there, I'm littlemusings, and this is my next major project. I would just like to say, before starting this tale, that I am taking creative liberties with this story (well, of course, this is FanFiction) - meaning that the New York City described in this tale, and the method of putting a family under the Witness Protection Program is purely AU and fictional, but based on true research. I'm not going to claim outwardly that _this _is the kind of situation a family can be put under, but for the sake of the story, this is the reason. _

_As for the rating, there will be scenes of violence, a healthy dose of profanity (how contradictory), and lots of sensual (though not graphic) references/situations. The rating is 'M' just to be safe. It might go down if it doesn't go ~in that direction~, but we'll see, shall we? I'm going to see how this all turns out-it'll be insane. It's badboy!douchebag!Blaine, after all ;) Who knows how his mind will work?  
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_Anyway, I really do hope you enjoy my next story, and thank you for the support you all have given me for _I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How To Dance With You!

**Disclaimer: **_Unfortunately, I do not own Glee. If I did, I'd be writing an episode in which Blaine introduces Kurt to his little sister Danielle, who doesn't exist in the Glee!Verse. My sad tears.  
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* * *

><p><strong>Witness Protection Problem<br>**by littlemusings**  
><strong>

_Pilot: _Edited Information

* * *

><p>There were three things in the world Kurt Hummel hated, and these three things were bigots, Mellencamp and body odor. After <em>that <em>situation, though, he had another item to add to his incredibly short list, and that was being a _witness_.

He even narrowed down the vague term to mean three different things, and wrote them down in his little leather planner after it all happened:

_a) Me, being a witness to a murder._

_b) Witnessing a court case, and being the star witness of the aforementioned murder during said court case. _

_c) Being put in the goddamn Witness Protection Program by America's insane judicial system because I witnessed a goddamn murder. The murder mentioned in part A._

_d) I hate playing "the witness" in court. _

_Rather, I just hate the judicial system in general. I hate court. _

Court was where he found himself that day, August the sixteenth. His parents, his father, Burt, and stepmother, Carole, and his ridiculously tall stepbrother, Finn, were sitting with the general assembly, waiting anxiously while he, Kurt, sat in a separate section near the front of the court room specifically for _witnesses_.

Kurt wasn't just a witness—he was the _star _witness. Though he relished being a star on both the stage and one off, (he still considered being in the court room that day a silly little dream) he despised sitting behind a wooden lectern on a wobbly stool, a small microphone ridiculously close to his mouth. It just wasn't the star status he was looking for. Plus, he could smell the judge's foul-scented black robe, and the cologne he probably sprayed it with to muffle the detestable stench.

Honestly, the smell didn't work for the poor old man.

Neither did the dress code, for anyone: Kurt wanted to wear his normal outfit for 'formal' occasions, a pair of Doc Martens, tight jeans, and a tasteful-looking top to complete the ensemble. But, no, his father insisted that he be 'practical' and wear a simple black suit. Though it _was _Prada, Kurt wanted to feel comfortable, and the collar of the polo shirt underneath was choking him to death.

Kurt despised court cases. Though he _did _love the macabre and mysterious (he utilized both archetypes to design clothes for themed occasions), he just hated sitting and watching court proceedings with every fiber of his being, which was why he absolutely could _not _understand why Finn loved to watch _Judge Judy_. The only thing he liked about the proceedings was the arguments the lawyers on both sides had: they reminded him of the debate club he was a part of at the private school he attended, Brenton Preparatory School. Plus, the revelation of the evidence was a bit enthralling.

Well, he enjoyed the debates until the lawyers started getting too technical about the provided evidence. That was when he automatically tuned out. And he hated the sight of blood and death.

"Kurt, I was asking you a question," the murdered man's lawyer said sternly. Kurt whipped his mind out of his thoughts and gave the judge a frown.

"I'm sorry, can you please repeat it again?" he asked sarcastically. The prosecutor's lawyer face-palmed himself and cleared his throat. Kurt's eyes flitted towards his parents, who looked restless and panicky, and then to his stepbrother (though more 'brother'), Finn, who looked incredibly busy playing a game on his PSP. Kurt fervently wished he were in his stepbrother's position.

"Kurt Hummel, is it true that you did, indeed witness the murder of James Falconi two weeks ago, on August the first?"

Kurt sighed. He was asked this every single day, from the moment he was brought to NYPD headquarters for questioning. "Yes, I did. I didn't know his name until I went up to see if he were still breathing. I checked his wallet. The guys took everything but his I.D."

"And those guys you saw killing him—were they the men you see now, Ed and Rodrigo Lopez?" he said, gesturing towards the two, large and hulking men sitting in orange jumpsuits in the defendant's seats. Kurt shuddered inside, just looking at them. He remembered their cold eyes, their shouts and their violent movements in the alleyway.

Kurt nodded stiffly. "Yes. It was they who killed James Falconi. I recognize them. Clearly."

One of the men, who Kurt remembered whose name was Ed, was about to stand up and shout a retort, but his lawyer pushed him down by the shoulders. Kurt gulped.

"Can you please recall the day, Mr. Hummel?"

The seventeen year-old resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and sighed, taking a deep breath, his heart hammering rapidly in his chest. He felt as if it were going to jump out of his ribcage. Thus, he began his tale, and to his annoyance, the court clerk was typing every single word he said.

* * *

><p><em>School was out, and he was just on his way home. Heading home in his school blazer and slacks, the seventeen year-old walked down the borough of Queens, humming to himself. He took a bite of his glazed donut idly. Jumping over an open pothole, he ducked into the long alley he usually took as a shortcut on his way home, throwing his Krispy Kreme bag into the dumpster as he approached the middle of the alley.<em>

_And that was when he heard the gunshot. Panicking, he ducked behind the dumpster and heard an argument commencing from inside one of the buildings. A door opened, and several people stepped out – that was as much as the boy could discern from what he heard. _

_And then he realized what was going on. _

_He was just in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Obviously. _

_A gunshot._

_A body._

_A muffled cry, a heavy kick. _

_A flurry of muttered expletives. _

_Heaving, slowing breaths; the sound of bones breaking. _

_He saw it all; he heard it all. The boy lingered behind the large green dumpster he had thrown his Krispy Kreme bag in just ten minutes ago. He was shaking violently, beads of sweat dripping down his face; his hands were sticky and clammy. With difficulty, he managed to reach into his sweater pockets, rummaging around for his phone. Come on, he thought, his tears fighting to make release. _

_There was another gunshot, and he risked a peek. Two very well built men with crew cuts were holding a smaller man against the brick of the alley wall. The boy could see a pool of blood forming beneath the smaller man's already fragile frame. They were shouting words he couldn't understand – _Goddamn it, why didn't I take Spanish?_ Their tone was demanding. He averted his gaze as quickly as possible and shakily dialed the police's number._

"_¿Dónde estas nuestros dólares, ha?" _

"_No se, no se!" the smaller man said hoarsely. "Please, don't—please!" he shrieked. _

Dólares, dólares_, the boy thought madly. _Money. They're demanding money from him_. He quickly drowned out their voices and held his phone tight to his ear. He resisted the normal temptation to tap his foot impatiently, in fear of being found. He felt like running back down the alley, to the sunlight, but he just couldn't. His feet were heavy like lead, and he knew that if he were seen running down, he would be shot as well. _

_He was thankful the dumpster was a few good steps away from the commotion. _

"_NYPD," the operator said coolly._

"_I believe there's been a murder in Queens," he breathed into the phone, eyes shut, tears falling down quickly. "Please, hurry. Kingston Street, an alley next to the florist and two blocks down from Krispy Kreme." _

"_Sir, please calm down and tell us your name." _

_The boy took a shuddering breath and mumbled as quietly as he could. "Kurt Hummel."_

_There was another loud gunshot, and the small man's whimpering cries seized immediately, and Kurt heard an echoing thump as the body crumpled to the ground. _

* * *

><p>When Kurt finished recounting his tale (shuddering at the images that continually plagued him),—he opted to just translate the Spanish, but left it in for good effect—the prosecution called him off the stand. Taking a deep breath, Kurt stepped down in his crisp black suit, hurrying back to where his parents sat. As he passed Ed and Rodrigo's table, he heard one of them—he wasn't sure which one—whisper to him menacingly:<p>

"_You're going to pay for that, Hummel." _

Kurt froze for a second and looked at the two brothers, who were staring at him darkly. He regained his composure and continued to his parents and brother, who stood up and hurried with him out of the courtroom when the judge announced a quick recess so that the jury could come up with a verdict. But, he could still feel their eyes, and countless other pairs of eyes on his back. He shuddered.

"Dude, that wasn't like freaking Judge Judy," Finn said indignantly as they sat outside the justice building. Burt and Carole were buying them all coffee at the pretzel stand at the foot of the long, marble staircase. Kurt shot Finn an apathetic look, resting his chin on the palm of his hand.

"I really expected something cool to happen, like a big shouting fight and stuff like that—"

"—Finn, you're not helping. And _no_, not every case features the incredibly irritating dramatics of the _Judge Judy _cases."

"Kurt, man, those are legit."

"They're just people who want money and five seconds of television fame," Kurt replied fiercely, his eyes glinting. Finn shut his mouth and proceeded to continue his PSP game. "What on earth are you playing?"

"Tekken, what does it look like?" Finn muttered, showing Kurt the screen, the words _Tekken 5 _flashing across the portable screen.

"You don't play _Tekken _in a fucking courtroom, Finn," Kurt snapped.

Finn looked up from his PSP and stared at Kurt. "What has gotten into you, dude?"

"Um, if you haven't noticed, I was a witness to a bloody, cruel murder and I actually had to look those two Neanderthals in the _eye_ and say 'oh, yes, these guys killed so-and-so, you should put them in jail. Let them rot!' I don't think anyone and their mother would like to hear that, Finn," Kurt growled, burying his face in his hands. Finn bit his lip and went back to playing.

"Here you guys go, coffee," Carole said brightly. Kurt looked up and graciously accepted the Styrofoam cup. Finn tucked his PSP away and took one. Their parents sat one step below them.

"You alright, buddy?" Burt asked gruffly, turning to his son. Kurt nodded.

"A bit shaken, but I guess so," he said sheepishly.

"I saw one of those Lopez guys say something to you. What was it?" Burt asked seriously, moving up a step. Kurt shook his head.

"Nothing. Nothing at all, dad."

"I'm not going to stop asking you until you tell me the truth," his father said sternly, his eyes looking right into his son's. Kurt looked away quickly in embarrassment. "See, I knew you were lying to me, Kurt. What did he say?"

"'_You're…you're going to pay for that, Hummel,'"_ Kurt repeated the words quietly. Carole looked up from her coffee, and Finn stopped playing. Burt looked livid.

"What?" she whispered. "Honey, they won't be able to do anything. The evidence is clear, and with your testament, they'll be locked up and you won't have to worry about a thing," she said, patting his knee gently. Kurt gave her a small smile.

"He's not going to get away with threatening you. Carole's right: they're going to lock them up, and we'll all be okay," Burt said fiercely. "Man, oh man, if I ever get to talk to those bozos—"

"Calm down, dad, your blood pressure."

"They won't hurt you, Kurt. They won't hurt any of us."

The family heard a loud voice call from the door: "Hudson-Hummels, court recess is over."

The family stood up, and Burt put a firm hand on his son's shoulder as they walked back into the justice building. As they entered the courtroom, the jury was finally settling back into their seats, and Rodrigo and Ed were already back in the front, and from behind, Kurt could tell that they were incredibly tense. _They should feel that way_, he thought, and then brushed it away from his mind. The four of them took their seats and waited as the judge took his position back on the high seat. A woman from the jury in a crisp white outfit—pencil skirt and white coat, walked over to the judge in her equally white heels, handing him a pink slip of paper.

The judge read over the verdict, and banged his gavel. "Order, order in the court."

The crowd in the courtroom settled down quickly, and silence fell over them. The judge cleared his throat. "The jury has spoken: Rodrigo and Edward Lopez, you are hereby pronounced guilty and the both of you will serve life in prison for the murder of James Falconi and Edward Lopez will serve ten years for the possession of marijuana."

The court clerk typed, and the _tak-tak-tak _of the keyboard was easily heard over the surprised murmurs of the court, and the screams of agony from an impeccably dressed woman sitting behind Edward and Rodrigo, who stood up, as they were lead out by the policemen. James Falconi's parents were hugging and crying tears of joy.

"You will not put my boys in jail! They are innocent!" the well-dressed woman shouted in a clearly Puerto Rican accent. Kurt couldn't meet the gaze of the brothers as they gave him steely, murderous looks when they passed by them. Burt tightened his grip on Kurt's shoulder. "You _cannot _put my sons in jail! _Putas! _All of you, _putas!_" The man standing next to her (also well-dressed, Kurt had to add) gripped her by the arms and whispered something in her ear. She stopped screaming and began sobbing into his shoulder. They rushed out of the courtroom behind the Lopez brothers and the policemen.

The Hudson-Hummels waited until the courtroom emptied. Kurt collapsed onto the wooden bench, breathing heavily. "Oh my god, that was horrible."

Finn slumped next to him as their parents talked to James' parents. "Feeling better?"

"Obviously not, that was terrifying," Kurt spat, leaning on his brother's shoulder. Finn ruffled Kurt's hair. "Remind me never to take the alleyway shortcut ever again."

"Never take the alleyway shortcut ever again," Finn repeated, smirking. Kurt sat up and whacked him on the shoulder gently. "Ow."

"Thank god I can go home and get out of this outfit."

"But I thought you liked Porda—Perda—Pra…"

"Prada," Kurt rolled his blue-green eyes. "I do, but the collar of my polo has been choking me to death. Don't you want to get out of your suit, too?"

"Yeah, I've got a date with Anna later; we're going to catch the concert dad's company's sponsoring at MSG, then head off to the after party."

"Oh, you mean the Nicki Minaj concert?" Kurt smirked. "Thought you didn't like her."

"Well, Anna does, and since we all have free tickets—"

"—I'm obviously not going, just give her our extra tickets so she can take her little friends and all that jazz."

"Anna Schoeller's really hot, Kurt."

"And I would know," the shorter boy said sarcastically, taking out a mini-mirror from his Marc Jacobs bag, checking his hair. "Sorry, but boobs aren't my thing."

"I know, just wanted to say," Finn shrugged.

"I've got a dinner date tonight, anyway."

Finn's eyes widened. "Oooh, with who?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Alan Jameson. He was in my AP English Language class last year, remember?"

"Can't you just go with Alan to the concert?"

"He's more of a classical guy. He's also a part of the school orchestra, a violin player, and made state three years in a row," Kurt said smugly, twiddling his thumbs.

"Kurt's going on a date, Kurt's going on a date," Finn laughed in a singsong voice. Kurt covered his ears in irritation.

"Please, don't sing. Well, at least not _here_. While I do enjoy it when you croon Journey and all of that in the shower because of the blackmail ideas your scrub-a-dub-dub shows bring about in my head, I suggest you _leave _it in the shower."

"You already have access to my…m-my Internet browser history, what else do you want Burt to know?" Finn immediately stopped singing and laughing. Kurt smiled haughtily. "Well, anyway, how are you going to tell dad about your dinner date?"

"Eh, I'll let him know…slowly," Kurt said uneasily.

Burt and Carole shook hands with the Falconi parents and gave them hugs and turned around to face their boys. "Well, boys, let's head home," Burt sighed, stretching. "You okay, Kurt?"

"Yeah, yeah," Kurt said, standing up. Burt gave him a fleeting, questioning look, then smiled again. "I'm starving, can we go somewhere to eat?"

"Sorry, buddy, but I've got a meeting back at the main office. The new 2012 Civic models are going to be released in about a month and we need to double-check the logistics and all that crazy public relations stuff, so it's off to home you go. Plus, ya'll have to get ready for that Nicki Mono…"

"…Minaj, Burt," Finn snorted.

"Okay, fine, _Minaj_ concert tonight. I got you guys free tickets since Honda's sponsoring, right?"

"I don't really feel up for a concert tonight, dad," Kurt said off-handedly. "Finn can give my ticket to someone else."

Burt stared at him and asked skeptically, "You sure? These tickets are free, Kurt. I thought you liked her?"

"I have a date."

Finn let out a little chuckle, to Kurt's chagrin. Carole grinned, hugging Kurt.

"A date," Burt said bluntly, as if the word were foreign to him. "You have a date tonight?"

Kurt blushed furiously. "Yes, yes I do, dad, as strange as that sounds."

"With who?"

"Alan Jameson."

"Jameson, the violin prodigy kid?" Carole gasped. Kurt nodded eagerly.

"I thought you were more for the Broadway-loving kind of guy?" Burt asked confusedly.

Kurt rolled his eyes and laughed in embarrassment. "Dad, he likes Broadway. At least I think he does."

"Well, alright, just give me a call and tell me when you want Andrew to drive you there and pick you up, kiddo. And, uhm, introduce me to this Jameson kid later, okay?"

"If you get back home from work faster."

The family walked out of the courtroom. As they exited, Kurt took one last look at it, hoping it would be his last, though the words of the Lopez brothers rang in his head, like an everlasting, terrible mantra…

_You're going to pay for that, Hummel. _

* * *

><p><strong>Hours After the Trial <strong>

Before heading off to work, Burt made sure to remind Kurt to '_not do anything rash'_ and to '_keep it clean_'. Rolling his eyes as he conducted his moisturizing routine early in the evening, he assured his dad that this date was a _simple_ one, and that they would just talk over dinner and '_all that jazz_'. Finn had already left the family condominium to pick up Anna Schoeller and their other friends after quickly changing out of his court attire, and Carole went to a friend's house on the Upper East Side two hours ago. Now, Kurt was alone to focus on preparing for his date.

He sat in front of his vanity mirror, fluffy white robe on, rubbing his face with organic creams, and began singing along to _Defying Gravity _playing on his speakers in the background. His heart was beating faster than usual: he _was _going on a fucking _date _with Alan Freaking Jameson, the most gorgeous—and one of the only gay guys—at Brenton Preparatory School. He looked at the clock: the hour hand moved: it was nearly seven, and he had to meet Alan at the Italian Bistro at seven-thirty. He walked over to his bathroom to rinse his face off, and as he put his hand on the faucet—

_Crash. _

The sound of a small crash reverberated in the large, high-ceilinged space of the condo. Kurt's hand lingered on the faucet, and he shook it off: _Nah, maybe I'm just…_

Another crash was heard. Kurt quickly rinsed and dried his face, and poked his head out of his bathroom door. No, the sound didn't come from his bedroom. It had to be from the living room, or one of the other bedrooms—_again_, he heard it. Kurt, his heart thumping ever so wildly, tiptoed towards his door and bent down to peek through the crack between the bottom of the door and the floor. _What on earth-? That sounded a lot like Carole's china collection…_The hallway was pitch-black dark, as Carole and Finn left it when they went to attend to their own personal matters.

_Again, I think I am hearing things. _

That was when he heard a small shout.

"Dude, the house is empty. None of them are here."

"Check the bedrooms!"

Panicking, Kurt stood up and switched his light off, and ran back to his bathroom, closing the door behind him quietly. He bit back a retort, knowing that his dad would get a heart attack if he found Kurt lying in a mess of china and broken glass. _Ugh, fuck, I feel defenseless—_he looked around the bathroom, and found nothing but his shaving razor. _Goddamn it, I'm guessing that those guys are bigger than a buffed-up Finn, judging by how skilled they seem to be in knocking things down…_

He heard the other bedroom doors open and slam shut with loud _bams_, and the loud crash of glass breaking. He jumped into the bathtub and slid the curtain shut.

"_Yo, man, the door to this one is locked._"

"_Maybe that's his room, try to open it—"_

There was a loud grunt and a kick, and a push, and Kurt heard his bedroom door open.

"No one's here, man," he heard a deep male voice say loudly. "Fucking a, I thought he would be here."

"_Estupido_, check the bathroom."

Kurt shrunk into the fetal position; tears falling down his face as he heard the loud _clop-clop _of boots approach the bathroom door. _Shit. Fucking hell, shit, oh god—what the fuck is going on?_ He hoped and—he didn't believe it, but he really did—prayed to whatever deity would listen, and the door opened with a creak. He held his breath, shaking as he lay on the cold marble of the tub as a small beam of light entered the dark bathroom. He saw the outline of a large, hulking man.

"No one's here," he growled, and then walked straight out of the bathroom, slamming the door shut. Kurt didn't dare to breathe. _Thank god he was stupid enough not to check the tub. _When he finally heard his bedroom door shut, and the continuous, resounding crash of china and photo frames ceased to be audible, he shakily sat in the tub, eyes wide with fear. After what seemed like forever, he crawled out of the tub and peeked into his bedroom from the bathroom door.

It was trashed. The feathers from his pillows were strewn throughout the room, and by his window lay his torn Egyptian cotton bed sheets. His vanity mirror was cracked, and his stack of _Vogue _magazines were ripped and flung all over the place, and his entire wardrobe was basically all over his floor. He hurried over to inspect everyone else's bedrooms, and when he saw that their rooms were as trashed as his, he walked over to the living room, taking care not to step over Carole's broken chinaware and the glass from the frames of hung family portraits.

Over the television, in red spray paint read:

_You're never going to be forgiven. _

His heart dropped and he found himself reaching for his cell phone, and dialing 9-1-1.

Again.

For the second time in two weeks.

* * *

><p>Instead of finding himself at the lovely Italian Bistro in SoHo with Alan Jameson, Kurt found himself outside a conference room at the NYPD headquarters with Finn, who the police had picked up from Madison Square Garden, to Finn's irritation. Their parents were inside, apparently arguing with Officer Larsen, the same man who had arrested Rodrigo and Ed those two weeks ago.<p>

"What a clusterfuck I have gotten us into," Kurt growled under his breath. Luckily, he got to change out of his bathrobe and into his jeans, Doc Martens, and off-shoulder sweater.

Finn sighed deeply and patted his brother on the shoulder. "It's not your fault, you didn't kill the dude. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, me being in the wrong place at the wrong time has landed us in this situation!" Kurt retorted in a strangled voice.

"Man, Kurt, I don't know how you can be so ad…ado—adulating about this being your fault."

"The word is _adamant_, Finn, _adamant_—and that's besides the point: if I hadn't taken the alleyway shortcut home instead of the main road, and hid behind that stupid dumpster, I wouldn't have been a bloody witness this morning, and our house wouldn't have been trashed into oblivion."

He buried his face in his hands and Finn rubbed his back comfortingly. This was all in vain, because they heard the voices within the conference room escalate.

"Fuck the insurance, what about my son's safety? My _family's _safety?" Burt shouted. "What are we going to do? Live in fear? I don't want that happening to my family!"

"We'll tighten security around your home—"

"—Rather, what's _left _of it!"

"Burt—honey, _please_, calm down—"

"—Carole, this is about our sons and their safety. Now, I don't care about all of our stuff, because we can afford to get it all fixed and replaced. I want to know _how _you can protect my wife and my sons. Goddamn CCTV cameras and microphones all over our house aren't going to help, because those things can easily get rigged!"

_Dad… _Kurt thought glumly, shifting to lie down on the couch. Finn moved out of the way and sat on the floor next to him. _Fucking hell, ugh. _

"There is another solution—"

"Don't you dare tell me that it's got to do with technology!"

Kurt and Finn heard Officer Larsen come closer to the conference room door. "Partially. Though…I think Finn and Kurt should come into the room so that they can hear this, too."

Upon hearing this, they saw the door open, and Officer Larsen, a tall, mustached man, beckoned for the Hudson-Hummel brothers to come in. Finn and Kurt stood up and walked in quietly. Burt was standing with his back turned to the door, arms folded, Carole massaging his shoulders in an attempt to calm him down.

"Have a seat, boys," Officer Larsen said, patting the backs of two, large leather chairs at the table. Finn and Kurt obliged; Kurt's face pale and expression icy.

Burt and Carole sat next to them as Officer Larsen sat across from them.

"The only other solution would be to put your family under the Witness Protection Program."

"Like, in _The Suite Life on Deck_, like when they thought that one guy was in the program thing?" Finn blurted out. Kurt rolled his eyes and punched his shoulder. Finn shot him a dogged look and frowned to himself. "Sorry."

"Finn, we're not living in a Disney Channel special, so shut up," Kurt snapped.

"Boys, stop it," Carole countered, clearly distressed.

There was a moment of silence as Finn and Kurt looked away from one another and Officer Larsen took this time to stand up and pick up a folder from a side table. When he sat back down, he began to speak.

"As you know, the Witness Protection Program, also known as WitSec, is for the families who have assisted the government with gaining information about criminal activity. In your case, your son, Kurt here, witnessed a gang crime."

Kurt's jaw dropped. "Wait, _gang_?"

"Yes, the Lopez Family is very well-connected to major gangs here in New York City and have been involved with drug trade and contraband for years. Convicting Ed and Rodrigo was our first step to exposing them. Along with the murder of James Falconi, they were charged with possession of marijuana and other countless drugs. Falconi was a former drug user, according to his old documents and the autopsy conducted. Falconi was sent to rehab last year, and wasn't seen after getting out a few months ago, until the weekend you witnessed his murder, Kurt. He hadn't paid his old debts to the Lopez brothers."

"Are you saying that my family has become the target of the Lopez family's?" Burt asked gruffly.

"Unfortunately, we assume it to be so," Officer Larsen said grimly. "So, the perfect solution is to put the four of you under the WPP. You will have completely new identities: new names, new jobs, new home—"

"New _home_?" Kurt and Finn exclaimed at the same time. Burt squeezed Carole's hand.

"So…if we were to be a part of this _program_…"

"All of you would be safe. They wouldn't be able to find you, and you would be put under 24-hour U.S. Marshall security. We would relocate the four of you to a new state."

"A new _state_," Kurt deadpanned.

"Kurt, it's the only way," Carole said gently, trying to reassure herself more than anyone.

"What about school and stuff?" Finn asked nervously.

"You'll both be transferred to a new school."

Finn and Kurt could only stare at the officer.

A new _school_? Kurt thought in agony. He was _this _close to dating Alan Jameson (or so he thought), he was to be president of the Debate Club, and was going to have the solo for Defying Gravity that he had wanted since freshman year in advanced chorus. He was on the Principal's Honors List, and was going to take it easy his senior year. But to move _now_, when everything important to him was happening? And Finn, too, was going to be the captain of the Brenton Preparatory School varsity basketball team, and he finally got a date with that stupid bimbo Anna Schoeller after trying to date her for two years. Plus, he was actually doing _well_ in terms of academics. Moving would ruin everything. He would carry around mace and a rape whistle everywhere he went in order to protect himself. He would.

"No."

Everyone turned to face Kurt, whose hands were gripping the sides of his chair tightly.

"Kurt, I am not going to live here in New York, worrying about you and your brother day in and day out. I'm not always here, and whatever security we had in our home just got breached!" Burt snapped. "Don't be selfish, Kurt, we're doing this for you and the rest of the family."

Kurt opened his mouth to say something, but he restrained himself. "Fine. This doesn't mean I _love _the idea."

Finn shifted uncomfortably in his chair and folded his arms, nodding curtly. "As long as we get to come back here."

"Only time will tell," Officer Larsen said, pursing his lips. "Well, we need to discuss living arrangements. Two weeks ago, when we first arrested the Lopez brothers, we already started planning your new living arrangements, just in case something like what happened earlier occurred."

He opened the blue folder in front of him, revealing documents with each of the Hudson-Hummel family members' faces on them. He passed them out one at a time. Kurt stared at his portrait photo, and there were two columns laid out beside it: one was labeled _True Information_, and the other was called _Edited Information_.

Kurt's eyes went straight for the _Edited Information_ column.

_Name: Henderson, Elijah Andrew_

_Date of Birth: May 1, 1994_

_Age: 17_

He stopped reading. "Excuse me, will someone please explain to me _why _my name is Elijah Andrew?"

Burt shot his son an angry look, and Kurt quieted down immediately. Other information, such as his changed Social Security Number, place of birth (San Francisco, California), and school transcripts were completely changed. Luckily, they kept the fact that he was a four-point-oh student, and the fact that he was an involved young man. He nodded in slight approval, but once he finally reached the line that stated 'sexuality' (were they even allowed to disclose that?), that was where he put his foot down.

_Sexual Orientation: Straight_

Kurt cleared his throat. "Uhm, excuse me, Officer Larsen, but I'm clearly _gay_. 100-percent gay, if you haven't noticed."

Officer Larsen sighed and looked at Kurt sympathetically. "Kurt, the whole point of this is to give you all new identities."

"I'd rather keep that part of me, to be _perfectly honest with you_. Since when did the government say it mattered whether a witness was gay or not, rather, when did it matter to change a witness' sexuality along with everything else?"

"I'd rather our son to be who he likes," Carole tried to reason with the officer. Officer Larsen shook his head.

"Discreetly, he can be. Outwardly, no. The point of the program is to be—"

"-To protect the witnesses, and also, to satisfy them in a way that they feel comfortable in their new environments!" Kurt debated.

"—Kurt, listen to Officer Larsen," Burt said stiffly.

Finn, Carole, and Kurt stared at him, hard.

Kurt couldn't believe it: his dad, his number-one supporter, the man who allowed him to be whoever he wanted and drove him to Pride Parades every damn year from when he turned thirteen, was telling him that he had to comply with the government's bitchy life-meddling.

"Dad—"

"—Kurt, I'm not saying that you should…well…_Kurt. _I'm thinking that Officer Larsen means that you can't act as…outward as you do now wherever they move. It might stir the pot a little and draw you too much attention."

"So, you're telling me to go back into the closet," Kurt stated bluntly.

"We'll discuss this later," his father exclaimed back. "Kurt, you have to understand that we have to _blend in_."

Kurt bit back a retort and buried his face in his hands. "Oh my god, this is going to suck so bad."

Finn looked at his brother sympathetically. "So…um…where are we moving?"

"Lima, Ohio. The two of you will be attending William McKinley High School. It's a public school."

Kurt looked up and his eyes widened. "_Public school?_ The two of us have been going to private school forever," he said, gesturing towards his brother and himself.

"We're sorry, Kurt, but the student population number of McKinley is large enough to hide the both of you."

Kurt had been attending Brenton Preparatory School since kindergarten. His father was one of the major men on the board of directors of Honda Motors (but before then, he was a car technician, then interned at Honda when he graduated from college), and his actual mother, Elizabeth, was a music teacher at Brenton. When she passed away when he was eight, Brenton gave him a discount for every year he attended, even though his family was very well off. Finn started going to Brenton in middle school (his dad died in the Persian Gulf War, and his very rich grandparents paid for him to attend the well-known school), and they were acquaintances until their parents met at a social on the Upper East Side and started dating in their sophomore year (Burt and Carole got married a year later).

"This can't be happening." Kurt muttered under his breath.

"I feel you, bro," Finn grumbled.

"So, your new names will be Michael Henderson," Officer Larsen said, gesturing towards Finn, "Elijah Henderson," he pointed to Kurt, "Mary Henderson," he said to Carole, "and Bradley Henderson," he nodded to Burt. The family nodded gloomily. "Kurt and Finn, the both of you will still be high school seniors. Burt, you will own a large car garage in Lima, which we will call our men there to start building, and since you are an expert with cars—"

"—I know them inside out," Burt nodded. "So I'll be working on them?"

"Yes."

Burt nodded in approval.

"For tonight, we will send people over to your house to collect your things: clothes, books, everything, and we have reserved two rooms for the four of you at the Marriott Hotel for the time being. We have scheduled your flight to Ohio for the eighteenth."

"That's two days from now!" Finn exclaimed. "How are we supposed to say goodbye to our friends?"

"There will be no time for that, unfortunately. Tomorrow, you will all be briefed properly on your new identities, and then you will be officially welcomed to the United States Witness Protection Program."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I hope you enjoyed the first chapter! Feedback/reviews would be very much appreciated!

Love,  
>Sam  littlemusings


	2. Target

_Holy mother of all that is Klaine! Thank you for all of the alerts for this story, and all of your kind reviews! There's just one thing I want to say to those who are a bit hesitant about this story already: yes, I know that WitSec doesn't change things such as sexuality and things like that, but as I said on my first author's note: I'm taking a lot of creative liberties, and Kurt's attempt to act differently will play a huge role in this story. _

_Now, once you have finished reading this chapter, please, please answer the poll on my page. **I'm going to do something different with the badboy!Blaine thing**. It's crazy crucial to the plot, and the plot has the ability to go two ways, and those two ways are mentioned in the poll (though I'm leaning more towards **the first choice**, because I'm trying to work on character development as a writer). Also, voice your opinions out in the reviews as well. Oh, dear, this story is going to be longer than INGTH, that's for sure._

_Enjoy!_

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee. Unfortunately. _  
><em>

* * *

><p><strong>Witness Protection Problem<strong>_  
><em>by littlemusings_  
>Episode 2: <em>Target

* * *

><p><em>He was falling.<em>

_Kurt was falling through the air, as if he were in a wide funnel, the earth's gravity dragging him down quickly. Though it was difficult for him to breathe, he loved how cool his body felt as it jetted towards the ground; he loved how his hair whipped through the funnel. He felt freer. _

_It all ended so quickly when his body neared the ground. He attempted to look up, and was blinded by a flash of light, and quickly turned back to face the bottom—_

_He was already hovering about a foot above the ground, and right underneath him was a frightening set of spinning blades, spinning suffocating amounts of air and wind into his face. He gasped, and all of a sudden, as if a hand were pushing him down, he sliced through the blades, screaming in agony._

"_NO!" he screamed as the blades cut him deeply. All he saw was red. But, the searing pain stopped immediately and he found himself lying facedown in a pitch-black room. He could not register a tangible thing; he could not detect any sign of life. Shivering madly, covered in cold sweat, he shakily got on all fours and pulled his legs closer to his chest._

_Then, he realized that he was naked. He could tell, even in the darkness. He felt it, obviously. _

_Though there was no one in the room he was in, he still panicked and curled tightly into a ball, tears running down his face. _

_Just then, a single spotlight loomed overhead, and he could see the outlines of shadowy figures standing around him. Laughing. Pointing. _

"_Told you that you were going to pay," he heard a feminine voice say coolly. Kurt turned to the source of the sound, and found a gun pointed at his face. _

"_Found you, motherfucker." _

_A click._

_His shuddering breaths._

_A loud, ringing gunshot. _

_The sound reverberated and thudded against his ears. _

"Kurt."

"_Mmmph._"

"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, you better wake up right now."

"I don' wanna…" Kurt groaned, flipping over on his plush hotel bed, covering his face with his blankets as his father threw open the curtains, letting a beam of sunlight flow into the room. "Close th' window, dad, close th' window."

"Kiddo, wake up. We have to go to the police headquarters today, remember?" Burt said gruffly, pulling Kurt's blankets aside. "Finn's already awake. You're usually the one who wakes up early."

Kurt sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes gingerly. "Couldn't sleep." Burt sat down next to his son, and Kurt finally noticed what his father was wearing: a simple and aged Nirvana t-shirt, a checkered flannel, and regular blue jeans, adorning a cap on his head. A far cry from the suits he was used to him wearing.

"Nightmares?"

"Nah," the seventeen year-old lied easily, getting out of bed and putting on his slippers. Burt pursed his lips, stood up, and walked towards the door of the hotel room. "Just couldn't sleep."

"Finn and Carole already went down to buffet breakfast, and the agents already got all of our stuff. I'll see you down in a few minutes, scooter?"

Kurt nodded, his hands gripping the hotel room desk, staring into the large mirror. "All right, dad," he responded with an anxious sigh. Burt walked out of the hotel room, closing the door behind him. Kurt let out a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair—_Stop doing that, it's a terrible habit_, he thought to himself angrily, removing his hand from his chestnut hair. _Get a grip. You'll be safe. There's no way they'll follow you to Ohio. Despite how much you hate the government, and the fact that they might secretly hate you too, you know they'll try to keep you and everyone safe. _He then double-checked his cell phone: no calls. He grumbled to himself and scrolled through his texts. _Nothing. Nothing from Alan. _

After they checked into the hotel, Kurt received a text from Alan, who was wondering where he was. Kurt hadn't bothered to reply, and was, unfortunately, informed to not text anyone back just in case their numbers were traced.

Kurt mulled all of his thoughts around in his head, which was aching terribly due to his lack of sleep. His entire body felt sore—probably from all of the tossing and turning and his attempts to sleep in awkward, yet comfortable positions in order to fall asleep. Tiredly, he shuffled in his slippers towards the bathroom, his posture slack, and flipped the switch on, undressing. He immediately walked into the shower, letting the hot jet of water wash over him and he felt his muscles unclench and relax. He kept this up for a few more minutes, and began to massage shampoo into his hair.

Upon hearing a quick rap on the bathroom door, he jumped, and to avoid tripping, he grabbed a hold of the crevice in the wall that was meant for bar soap. "Who is it?" he asked.

"Um, bro, it's me."

Kurt relaxed and continued rinsing his hair. "Finn, I'm taking a shower!" he called. He heard his brother plop down on his bed.

"I brought you some breakfast. The buffet's already closing, so I got you an omelet and those other French pastry thingies you like eating," Finn called from the other side of the door. Kurt let a smile curl upon his lips.

"Thanks, I'll eat after I get out of here."

"I'll be in Burt and mom's room."

"Okay, okay!"

Kurt heard the room's door slam shut, and he finished his shower in peace, dried off and got dressed.

* * *

><p>"What is your name?"<p>

"Elijah Hummel—I mean, Henderson."

"Alright, where were you born?"

"Albany, New Yo—_oh, damn it_!" Kurt exclaimed, frustrated. He slammed his fist down on his chair's armrest, a crease forming between his eyebrows. "I'm never going to get this right. Elijah Henderson. Henderson. _Henderson_. Born in San Francisco, California. San-Fran-Cis-Co. Christ, I sound so stupid."

The agent assisting him, a statuesque, dark-haired woman named Agent Clarice Motto, gave him a sympathetic expression and looked up from the files in her hands. "Oh, Kurt."

"We've been at this for nearly an hour and a half, Agent Motto," he grumbled. "I guess I'm just…out of it today." He looked down at the muted cell phone on his lap—_still _no messages. "I do believe I just found out about getting involved in all of this WitSec nonsense last night, and from all of the research I conducted about WitSec for debate club before, you guys are changing so many things that shouldn't be changed. Like my sexuality, for example—"

"—Kurt. You come from a very high-profile family. You, yourself have been featured in articles across this entire state, and once or twice out-of-state for minor debate competitions, and quite frankly, especially the bit about your sexuality. We're trying to be discreet here; the Lopez Family has strong connections throughout the country, and we don't want to take any risks."

"Well…this may sound odd and probably awkward, but can't I be _discreetly _gay? It's just so terrible pretending to be someone I'm not. If I can't have my name, I'd at least like to retain every other fiber of my _being_…particularly my sexual orientation," Kurt scoffed, folding his arms. Agent Motto gave him a wary look, and he relaxed his position. "I…I'm sorry," he whispered. "This is just too much to take in."

Agent Motto walked around to Kurt's side and sat on top of the table by his chair, and sighed. "The thing is, Kurt…It wasn't my idea, or Officer Larsen's idea to try and change that part of you. If I had the powers to change these documents, I would—but, you could always re-interpret the papers given to you, you know. The paper may say 'straight,' but as you so duly noted, you could act _discreetly _gay. Just so you won't be pushed so far into the closet, if you know what I mean."

"I see what you mean."

"By _discreetly_, I suggest you dress down a little: try some casual and wear labels and designer clothing less."

Kurt's jaw dropped and he gave her an incredulous expression. "You've got to be kidding me. I am not dropping my Doc Martens and McQueen scarves for…for…"

"Kurt."

Kurt grumbled and nodded. "I'm sorry, I sound like a spoiled child."

"I understand," Agent Motto said, patting his shoulder. "I was a WitSec kid, too, you know."

"You were?"

"Yup. They didn't go to the extremes for my family like they're doing for yours right now, though. I got to keep my first name," she grumbled. "I guess it's because, again, you guys are very high-profile. It all may seem really unnerving at first, going by different names and all of that jazz, but you get used to it. Instead of 'Motto,' my last name was 'Steipen.'"

"What caused you guys to join?" Kurt asked, his interest piqued.

"My dad was an undercover agent, and he disguised himself as a member of a gang to find out information about drug contraband in Seattle. We got relocated to New Jersey. You can imagine what a culture shock I had, because I came from good old Bremerton, Washington," she joked. Kurt gave her a little smile. "We were in hiding for about two years, and then it all…passed by very quickly. I finished high school in Jersey, and I made a lot of friends, and eventually revealed who I was, and why I moved to Jersey in the first place. Shocked a lot of people, really. But we were done with WitSec then and I just felt free. They pretty much understood what was going on.

"At first, it all seems terrible. But the one thing I kept in my mind was: _I need to keep my family safe_. That was why we were in Jersey."

"Wow," was all Kurt could muster.

"So, Kurt, just…try to think positive, okay? We want another government success story," she winked. She handed him his file and he took it. "Now, review it one more time, and I'll drill you. I think your parents and Finn are almost done, so you guys can take a break and prepare for your flight tomorrow."

Kurt opened the folder and as Agent Motto stood up to walk out of the room, he asked: "Agent Motto?"

She turned around. "Yes?"

"I was just wondering, are you going to be one of the people watching us in Ohio?"

Agent Motto gave him a small smile. "I sure hope so, kiddo. You're one of my favorite people already, and that's saying a lot."

She walked out of the room and Kurt took a deep breath and opened his file. He cleared his throat, stood up, and began to walk around the conference room, memorizing his new life details like he would lines for an upcoming school play.

"My name is Elijah Andrew Henderson. I was born on May 1, 1994 in San Francisco, California, and my dad, Brad, is a car mechanic. We moved up to Los Angeles when I was eight, and that was where my dad met my stepmom, Mary, and my stepbrother, Michael…"

_This is for my family. _He looked down at his phone again, and when he saw no messages, he slid his phone across the table, and kept on reciting.

* * *

><p>Kurt sat on the floor of their hotel room, a large luggage bag open next to him. He had several large piles of clothes in front of him and was frantically trying to figure out how to fit all of his designer clothes into the single, large bag he was allowed since there was a weight limit for the airplane storage. Finn sat on the other side of the hotel room, doing the same, but his piles were smaller than Kurt's.<p>

"I don't think you can bring everything," Finn said bluntly, staring at his weary-eyed brother.

Kurt rolled his eyes and picked at a pile of scarves next to him. "Obviously."

"Do you wanna put some of your stuff in my bag? I mean…I don't have as many clothes as you do, so you can put some of it…"

"Thanks, Finn," Kurt sighed, picking up three piles, standing up, and handing them to Finn, who obliged and put them in his luggage bag. Kurt sat back down by his things. "Please fold them properly. I don't want to see my favorite McQueen scarf wrinkled and all of that nonsense. Anyway…how was the part of the Nicki Minaj concert you saw last night?"

Finn shrugged. "It was cool, I guess. There was so much pink; my eyes were burning. Anna had a good time, though…"

"You're going to miss Anna, aren't you?"

"Yeah, I guess. And you're gonna miss Alan Jameson."

Kurt furrowed his eyebrows, a crease forming in the space between, and angrily shoved some of his clothes—neatly—into his bag. "Couldn't text him back. When I was supposed to, Officer Larsen told me I couldn't text anymore. What did you tell Anna?"

"Couldn't text her, either. Sucks, man. I don't wanna move, but I guess it's…I don't know…refreshing to try out a new place. They probably have a good football team or something."

"At least _you _can still be who you want to be," Kurt muttered indignantly, placing his scarves neatly in his luggage. "I have to be partially shoved back into the closet."

"We'll get through this, and you can still be yourself at home," Finn said, walking to his brother. He plopped down next to Kurt, who shook a finger as Finn attempted to pat his back. "Sorry."

"No touching."

"Sorry!" Finn laughed. Kurt gave him a small smile.

"I guess this will test my acting ability," Kurt gave a heaving sigh and finally finished putting his clothes away. "In the event I have to play a man straighter than a ruler in a future musical, this may be my chance to try method acting for a change."

"Method what?" Finn asked confusedly.

The smaller boy bit back a laugh. "Nothing, nothing."

"What are you gonna do about your clothes?"

Kurt's heart dropped. "Can't wear all of them. I have to buy a new line of jeans from somewhere, and then buy a bunch of shirts from Dior and H&M."

"…If Burt will let you spend that much."

"I hope."

The two brothers sat in silence, staring at their completed luggage bags. Kurt pulled at the blanket on his bed and wrapped it around himself tightly.

"I'm going to miss the city."

"Me, too."

"My mom wouldn't have let this happen," Kurt whispered hoarsely, leaning against the edge of the bed. "She would have let us stay and deal with it, because as my dad always says, 'no one pushes the Hummels around.'"

Finn gave him a grim smile. "You still got her picture, right?"

Kurt nodded and pointed towards the front pocket of the Marc Jacobs messenger bag sitting in the corner of the room. Finn stood up and took out an old, tattered photo from the front pocket and held it up to Kurt's face. "Your mom would have wanted you to be strong and…and go on with this stuff," Finn said sternly. Kurt's eyes widened slightly and his throat constricted; Finn was never one for affectionate and eloquent comfort speeches. "And I know my dad would have wanted that, too. We've got each other, bro, and that's pretty much it. We're gonna go through with this for as long as we need to."

The shorter boy's eyes rimmed with tears and he held his arms out, letting the blanket fall to the floor. Finn gave him a questioning look. "Yes, you can hug me now."

Finn grinned and hugged his stepbrother tightly. "Henderson brothers now, not Hudson-Hummel, aren't we?"

"Indeed."

"So, that means we're like real bros. Not brothers from another mother."

"Okay, Finn, you can stop now."

* * *

><p>"<em>Good morning, passengers. We will be landing in Columbus, Ohio, in approximately thirty minutes. Please fasten your seatbelts, and secure your belongings. The time is now six-thirty A.M. Thank you for flying with American Airlines<em>."

Kurt fidgeted in his seat, staring out the window. It had been about an hour since they left New York. The plane ride was mundane and uneventful; Finn had fallen asleep almost immediately since they left the state at an ungodly hour in the morning, and their parents were sitting two rows in front of them.

When he and Finn were woken up earlier that morning, Kurt's mind was working on overdrive. He double-checked his phone for one last time before Officer Larsen took it away—and he hadn't been texted by Alan, or any of his friends from Brenton Preparatory. His heart had been ripped to pieces at the sight of the _Zero Messages _notification in his inbox, and he was about ready to fling his phone at the nearest wall.

Driving through the city at the wee hours of the morning was worse. There they were, the Hudson-Hummel family, saying goodbye to the city they had lived in for years. Kurt yearned to jump out of the car and run straight to Times Square and live there. His eyes clung to the flashing Broadway billboards they drove by, and he felt like his dreams were shattering, as well, because he didn't know how long it would be until they came back. The car even passed by the ornate campus of Brenton Preparatory, and Kurt tore his eyes away and covered them with his Alexander McQueen scarf. It was too much, and he had burst into tears when they boarded at LaGuardia.

But now, he was beyond crying. His eyes rimmed red, he continued to stare out the window as the plane began to descend onto the runway of Columbus International Airport. Finn woke up and looked at him blearily.

"We're here already?" he asked, scratching his head confusedly. Kurt didn't bother to look at him and shook his head.

"No, stupid, we're still in New York," he said sarcastically. "Yeah, we're here. You know, I was half-expecting to see fields and fields of nothing but wheat, but I was sadly mistaken."

The plane finally landed on the runway, and was screeching to a halt at the nearest terminal.

"_Hello, passengers. The seatbelt sign is still on, but once it is turned off, you may unbuckle your belts and retrieve your belongings in the overhead compartments. Again, my name is Captain David Bremerton, and we thank you for flying with American Airlines on this fine morning. Welcome to Columbus, Ohio." _

* * *

><p>The drive to Lima was a long one, indeed. Kurt fell asleep this time, and woke up when they were passing through a large neighborhood full of mansions, and large houses in general.<p>

"Is this Lima?" he asked in wonder. Burt looked at him from the front of the car they were renting, and looked back at the road.

"No, we're on the outskirts of Westerville; we're just passing by here," he responded gruffly as they turned another corner and back into a suburban-like neighborhood. "Lima's another hour away."

"Let's just live here," Kurt called out tiredly.

"Oh, cool, that house has a pool!" Finn exclaimed, pointing outside the window. "Dude, Burt, Kurt's right—let's just live here."

"We have a house in Lima, boys," Carole chastised. "We're nearly there. And Finn, don't point. You're not a five year old."

Kurt looked behind their car as they edged out of Westerville County, and saw a sleek, black sedan following them. "Are those the agents?"

"Yup," Burt responded. "They'll leave us alone once we reach our house in Lima. Then, afterwards, we'll drop our stuff off, then take you boys shopping for your first day of school next week."

"What? School is starting here already? Isn't it too early?" Finn exclaimed.

"They started last Monday."

"Shopping, please," Kurt said, relieved. "You just said the magic word, dad."

"I don't want to go to school yet," Finn grumbled under his breath. His brother nodded in agreement.

"Boys…" Burt said in a warning tone as they entered the main road. "Oh, hey, there's no traffic. Looks like we're going to get there sooner." He looked down at the GPS. "Yup, we'll probably get there in thirty minutes instead."

"Joy," Kurt said sarcastically.

"Can we get something to eat?" Finn asked.

* * *

><p>The suburb they were staying in was, to Kurt, appropriate. It was within Lima, with perfectly green and trimmed lawns, and it seemed that the most common house colors were white and beige (Kurt gagged at the sight of a neon-green house, hoping that wasn't theirs. Thankfully, it wasn't). He saw some kids running around sprinklers and riding their bicycles, their parents watching them vigilantly. <em>They seem friendly enough<em>, he thought.

But, it still wasn't New York.

The car halted in front of a large, white colonial-looking home that was nested within a cul-de-sac of the suburb. Kurt appraised the outside critically as he opened the door to take a good look at where he would be staying for a while and gave a meek nod of approval as Burt patted his shoulder and gestured for him to enter the house. Kurt took one look behind him as the black sedan following them drove away slowly into the neighborhood.

"This is beautiful!" Carole exclaimed, clapping her hands together excitedly. "Come on, guys, let's go ahead and put our stuff inside," she called from the front door. Finn and Kurt lumbered after her and Burt and set their bags in the hallway.

"Dude, this looks awesome," Finn said in awe. Kurt shrugged.

"Normal American house. I like the color scheme," he said, assessing it with narrowed eyes. "I guess I can spice it up a little with more shades of red and…"

"DIBS ON BIGGEST ROOM!" Finn shouted, dashing up the staircase. Kurt groaned in protest and ran after him.

"Finn, you idiot, I wanted the biggest room!" Kurt yelled back, looking for his brother on the second floor. He was nowhere to be found. "Finn?"

"Dude, I'm gonna pick the attic," he heard Finn's voice floating from above. Kurt turned around and saw a pull out set of stairs hanging from the ceiling. He climbed up the stairs and found his brother looking around a large attic, grinning to himself. "It's awesome, you can see everything."

"Yes, you'll be just like the monkey in _Rise of the Planet of the Apes_," Kurt replied, snorting. "Now, if you don't mind, I'll be choosing a room suitable for my needs."

Kurt climbed back down the attic staircase and picked the room closest to the bathroom and the stairs leading to the first floor. It wasn't exactly the biggest; he knew his parents would prefer the master's bedroom for themselves, and set his Marc Jacobs bag down by the door. He pulled his wallet out of his bag and walked back downstairs, where his parents were looking around the first floor.

"Ready to go? We're gonna go shopping and all of that; I've got a map of places near here," Burt called when he heard Kurt walking down the stairs. "You and I will go first, while Carole and Finn are going to wait for the U-Haul with all of our stuff coming in later."

Kurt's face brightened up immediately at the sound of the word "shopping" once more and obediently followed his dad outside and into the shotgun seat of the car.

"So, where are we off to shop?" he asked eagerly, buckling his seatbelt. Burt gave him a sigh and a nervous look.

"Target," he said simply.

Kurt tilted his head to the side, his smile slowly dripping off his face. "What?"

"We are going to Target."

"No, we're not."

"Kurt, I am taking you to Target."

"I have not, and I will never step into a Target franchise. Never I will, never!" Kurt exclaimed, threatening to open the door and walk out.

"_Kurt!_" Burt exclaimed. Kurt's position stiffened and he sat straight in his seat, his hands folded in his lap neatly, remembering what Agent Motto had told him: _it's for your family_.

"This will be torturous," Kurt said quietly, his voice quivering. "But fine. Take me to…to Target. Buy me clothes that will make me itch and all of that nonsense."

"They won't make you itch!" Burt reprimanded as he drove down the street. "Kurt…Remember what the agent said?"

"Blend in, yes, we have to blend in," Kurt sighed. "If you buy me grungy-looking, faux-hipster clothes, I may have to protest."

"Whatever that stuff is, I know you'll point it out to me and I won't get 'em. You're picking your clothes anyway. You'll have plenty of choices there, unlike online at Dior or wherever you go and shop, kiddo."

"I guess we'll find some…bargains…or something," Kurt mumbled.

"You're going to need a new bag, as well," Burt said after a brief period of silence.

"New bag?"

"You're not bringing that Jacobs bag to school to get it trashed or anything like that! I'll get you something like Finn's old Jansport; that'll be good, won't it?"

Kurt's jaw dropped. "…Jansport."

"Yes, Kurt, Jansport," Burt grunted as he turned a corner and closer to Target. "You used to have one when you were little!"

"I did?" Kurt gaped at him. "I don't think so. I probably threw it away or something…"

"What's wrong with Jansport backpacks? They're…um, nice," Burt tried to reason with him.

"Lately, their designs have been retrograding into disaster," Kurt said distastefully. "Really, I saw one that looked like it was trying to copy Burberry's designs, and it really ticked me off. Not getting one of those; I'm using my Marc Jacobs messenger bag."

"We're getting you a new backpack."

"I'm sorry if I come off as very spoiled to you, dad, but _no._"

"Kurt, you are spoiled. Will you please stop arguing with me?"

"Well, I'm sorry if I'm—"

"—Please, stop, Kurt. I know…I know this is all distressing, but we've got to learn how to adapt."

Burt turned another corner, and they finally arrived at Target. Kurt shifted uncomfortably in his seat as his father began to search for a space. After he found a spot closer to the entrance, Kurt got out and slammed the door behind him, following his already angry father, not wanting to piss him off more.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Quick AN: **_I came up with Agent Motto's name before watching The Purple Piano Project, so when I heard that Sugar's last name was "Mott_**a**_," I laughed a little inside. Hee hee. Also, a lot of Kurt's emotions while moving to Ohio-I felt the same way just last summer. I moved from Japan to the Philippines, and really, it sucked. I was constantly told to stop whining and griping, just like Kurt ;p

**_Coming Up Next: _**Kurt and Finn's first day of school. Their so-called "student helper" is not exactly helpful.

Thoughts? ;) My brand-new Tumblr is dietcrisscolfer if anyone wants to leave something in my ask!


	3. Of Slushies and Problem Children

_ohmygodthealertsandreviews! Hi everyone! Thank you so much for your interest in this little story of mine :) To my "I'm Not Gonna Teach Him How To Dance With You" readers, I'm so, so sorry that I haven't updated it in so long. I'm still working on the final chapter. It'll be up soon enough! The reason why I posted this one up so fast is because I already wrote half of it during the summer break, and I just had to add several scenes I couldn't fit into the second episode! _

_This chapter was originally supposed to be the second episode. But I decided to make Blaine's grand entrance...much more grander (how do you words?). Enjoy, everyone!_

_Also, if you post something about this on Tumblr, I'd love to see it! Just tag it as the title of the story or 'littlemusings' ;)_

_PLUS, I JUST WANTED TO SAY THAT I LOVE FLUFFY FURT BROTHERNESS TIME. Okay, done.  
><em>

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Glee, unfortunately. Also, I do not speak French. Just sayin', for future reference. _

* * *

><p><strong>Witness Protection Problem<br>**by littlemusings**  
><strong>Episode 3: _Of Slushies and Problem Children_

* * *

><p>The rest of the weekend didn't go on as smoothly as Kurt thought it would. Though he was able to find some suitable clothes for him to wear, his relationship with his father had become slightly strained, and throughout all of their family meals, everyone remained silent. He managed, however, to fix his room exactly the way he wanted and blast his Broadway playlist as loud as he wanted. Other than that, it had been the most nerve-wracking and boring weekend of his life. They had explored Lima on Saturday, and Kurt realized that there was nothing there but houses, various stores scattered across the town, McKinley High School (which was a far cry from the beautiful campus of Brenton Preparatory), and his dad's new garage.<p>

That Sunday night, Kurt lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, the sound of Patti LuPone's voice echoing from his iPod speakers quietly. His heart hammering in his chest, he shifted his position and drew his blankets and pillows closer to himself. The next morning, he would be on his way to school at a brand new place, putting his new identity to work.

He heard his door open and immediately feigned sleep.

"Kurt," he heard Finn's voice call out quietly. Kurt's eyes blinked open and he sat up, staring at his brother blearily as a beam of light from the crack of the door hit his eyes.

"What?"

"Are you ready for tomorrow?"

Kurt let out a heavy sigh and shook his head. He gestured for Finn to come in and sit on the edge of his bed. "Scared shitless. That's what I am."

"You've got me, Kurt. Hopefully we have the same classes," Finn said eagerly.

"No way," Kurt laughed nervously. "You were in almost all of my classes last year."

"True."

"Okay, I'm going to say something I know I will never say again in my entire life: we should stick together tomorrow," Kurt said, his tone turning serious. Finn nodded in agreement. "Yes, I just said that. I can't believe I just said that."

"You did, and I've recorded it for potentity…"

"…The word is _posterity_, Finn. Whatever. I will never say that again. Keep that ingrained in your head, because we're going to…ugh, need each other tomorrow. Plus, I'm going to need you to help keep me in check. Fix my…mannerisms and all of that."

"Your Kurterisms."

"What?" Kurt asked exasperatedly.

"Never mind."

"Yeah, never say that again. But…just remember what I said, alright?"

"Alright."

The two brothers sat there awkwardly.

"Bro-fist?" Finn laughed, holding up his clenched fist. Kurt rolled his eyes and smiled, bumping his brother's fist back.

"'Night, Finn. See you tomorrow."

"Same, bro."

* * *

><p>"RISE AND SHINE, SLEEPYHEAD!"<p>

Kurt felt a pillow whack the side of his head, and he shot up immediately, infuriated. He grabbed the nearest pillow to him and whacked Finn, who was laughing hysterically next to his bed. Lights dancing in his eyes, Kurt jumped out of bed and Finn's mouth turned into a little '_o_' as he saw his brother getting ready to murder him. That was when Finn ran out of the room, and Kurt followed him with a shout resembling that of a battle cry.

"SCREW YOU, FINN!" Kurt screamed as Finn dashed up his stairs ("Go and screw Alan!") and immediately folded and pulled them up, disappearing into the attic. He heard heavy footsteps go up the main staircase, and he turned around, his father lingering on the top step, an eyebrow raised in speculation.

"Um, good morning to you too, Kurt."

"Dad," Kurt breathed, still clutching his pillow tightly in his hands. "Sorry about that."

"Well, go and get ready; it's your first day of school."

Kurt's heart plummeted. "Right. Right, will do. See you downstairs, dad."

Burt nodded awkwardly and walked back down the stairs. Kurt slowly walked back to his room and slammed the door shut, walking straight for the shower. He quickly rinsed his hair and his body, and finished, drying himself off and starting his morning moisturizing routine in his black, silk robe.

He heard two raps on his door.

"Who is it?"

"Kurt, it's me."

"Finn, go away."

"Kurt," Finn called. "Hurry up, mom and Burt are waiting."

"Calm down! I'm on my way!" Kurt snapped, rubbing his face quickly. He put his moisturizing kit away and proceeded to dress for school.

He grabbed a pair of tight, skinny jeans and pondered what he would wear on top, his eyebrows furrowing as he saw his favorite designer shirts in the corner. _Can't wear you. Can't wear you_. Taking a deep breath, he grabbed a plain, v-necked white Mossimo shirt, plain black and white Converse All-Stars, a red and black flannel, and got dressed.

After dressing, he shut his eyes and opened them, staring at himself in the mirror. Even he was shocked. _What the hell happened to you? _He shook this off and proceeded to fix his hair, giving it a slightly windswept look, and picked up the black Jansport bag by his door once he finished. Taking a deep breath, he opened his door and headed downstairs, finding his parents and Finn eating breakfast.

Kurt cleared his throat and everyone at the table turned around to stare at him, Finn's fork falling from his hands; eyes wide with shock. "Um…What?"

"You look different," Finn snorted. "Good job, bro."

Kurt rolled his eyes and felt his family's eyes follow him as he sat down at the table. He looked up. "What?"

"Nothing, honey, it's just…different not seeing you in your normal clothes."

"I know, even I was freaked out, too," Kurt muttered, cutting his pancakes vigorously. Burt clapped a hand on his shoulder appreciatively.

"Okay. Finn, Kurt. You know the drill. What are your names again?" Burt asked, testing them.

"Michael Henderson," Finn said through a full mouth of eggs.

Kurt let out a loud sigh. "Elijah Henderson."

"Where did we move here from?"

"Los Angeles," they both said at the same time. Burt and Carole gave each other hopeful looks.

"Ready to go, boys?" Burt asked, wiping his hands on his table napkin once everyone finished. Finn and Kurt looked at each other warily and nodded. Everyone stood up and Carole took their plates and put them in the sink to wash later.

The family got out of the house, and into their car, driving right for McKinley High School.

* * *

><p>"Have a seat, boys," the school principal, a short, balding man by the name of Principal Figgins said politely. "Have a seat."<p>

Kurt and Finn awkwardly shifted from standing to sitting, Kurt gripping his backpack on his lap; Finn unceremoniously leaving it by his chair. They heard and saw a flurry of students rush down the hallway as the first bell rang.

"So, Elijah and Michael," Figgins said happily. Kurt and Finn nodded, forced smiles on their faces. "Are you both ready to take on McKinley High School?"

"Ready as we'll ever be," Kurt said, dropping his voice down an octave, making Finn attempt to repress a snort.

"Alright…Elijah. It looks like your grades are very impeccable; we'll be proud to have you as a part of our Titan team!"

Kurt pursed his lips into a smile. "Thank you, sir."

"Do you have a football team?" Finn asked eagerly. Principal Figgins nodded.

"Yes, Michael. Our season is starting off quite well, and our coach, Shannon Bieste, is the top in the state. I think she's still holding tryouts this week, so you better get a spot fast because she cuts boys off the team pretty fast," he said seriously. "What about you, Elijah? Interested in joining the football team?"

Kurt had to fight back a laugh. "No, I'm more of an artsy kind of kid, if you catch my drift."

"We have a glee club you can join, plus a dramatic arts program, if you wish."

Kurt's eyes widened, but he kept his composure. "I'll keep that in mind."

"Alright, boys. I'll have your student helper sent here to guide you to your homeroom class. Here are your schedules; the registrar left them with me," Principal Figgins said, handing Finn and Kurt their schedules. They took them graciously. "Just wait outside, and he'll be here in a few minutes."

They stood up and shook hands with the principal, and turned on their heels to get out of the office.

"What's your schedule?" Finn asked quickly as soon as they walked out, grabbing at Kurt's still pristine and crisply printed schedule. Kurt yanked it out of his brother's hands, noting that Finn's was already folded and crumpled. "Oh, come on, Ku—I mean…Elijah. God, it's so weird calling you that, still—"

"Will you stop trying to ruin my schedule? It's getting on my nerves, and don't you dare blow our cover," Kurt snapped. He lowered his voice as they sat down outside the office, waiting for their 'student helper': "Finn. You are not Finn Hudson anymore while we're in this goddamn state, okay? You're Michael. Michael Henderson. Remember our plan."

"Fine…_Elijah_," Finn said distastefully. "Anyway, what's your schedule?"

Kurt rolled his eyes. "Homeroom, Mr. Schuester. First period, AP English Literature, second period Advanced French, third period AP Calculus—"

"Hold up," Finn interrupted. "You're taking AP _Calculus_? Are you trying to kill yourself?"

Kurt groaned out loud, making the secretary in the office look at him confusedly. He gave her a smile and she looked away, shrugging. He turned back to his stepbrother. "I'm trying to distract myself with AP classes in order to keep my mind off of living in this cow town. You know, it's still really weird to see my dad in overalls and planning to work on cars rather than in a suit, you know, planning to _sell _them? I digress. Anyway, after that I've got human anatomy, then AP Government, Introduction to Theater—"

"—Like you need that—" Finn laughed.

"—And P.E. Oh no. I was already done with my physical education credits back in New York!"

"Welcome to Ohio, bro. Have fun pretending not to be gay," Finn whispered, and then snorted into his hand, trying to hide his laughter. The secretary was starting to give them looks that clearly screamed, _shut up, you two, or I will pile-drive you both into a wall. _

"Fuck you, Fin—_Michael!_" Kurt hissed, punching his shoulder angrily. Finn frowned and rubbed his shoulder gingerly. "I don't check out guys in the locker room! I never have!"

"Whatever. Did I even say locker room?"

"Ugh," Kurt muttered. "I didn't mean anything by it."

"Okay. Keep telling yourself that," Finn grinned.

"Whatever," Kurt frowned. _Anyway_, what's _your _schedule, Mr. Know-It-All?"

Finn nodded, lips pursed as he pulled his schedule out of his pocket, un-wrinkling it to Kurt's displeasure. "Okay. I've got Schuester, too." Kurt looked at him with faux horror. "Hey, don't give me that look! Then Spanish, ugh, with Schuester, too. I hope that guy's funny or I'm going to fail…"

"You nearly failed last semester at Brenton Prep," Kurt pointed out. "Plus, funniness rate of a teacher doesn't determine student performance."

"Don't remind me. Then…uh…" Finn peered back down at his schedule. "English 12, human anatomy…hey, we have that together! Uh, street law, then video production, discrete math, and then…P.E."

"All in all, we have three classes together. Thank god, that's less than the amount we shared at Brenton," Kurt sighed in relief. He looked up at the office clock impatiently. "Where the hell is that 'student helper'?"

"Dead," Finn nodded solemnly. Kurt gave him a look of utter apprehension.

"You're stupid, Michael Henderson. Very. Stupid."

Finn frowned and stuffed his schedule back in his pocket, putting his backpack on his lap. Kurt gave him a withering look and folded his arms, legs crossed, back ramrod straight.

"Your legs…Elijah, yeah, your legs," Finn laughed quietly. Kurt quickly untangled his legs irritably and rolled his eyes. "Sorry. Just had to point that out, bro."

_Damn it all. I'm going to hate this, forever. At least at Brenton I could rock the blazer and accessorize and actually use a decent Jacobs bag than this stupid, ugly Jansport_, Kurt thought angrily, peering down at his black polyester backpack. _I miss wearing my berets publicly. And my knee-length sweaters. At least I can still wear my cardigans. I want my real name back, my old house. My old everything. I hate this. I hate this so much. Okay, stop thinking now. Stop thinking negatively—ohmygod_.

His thoughts were interrupted when the office door flew open, and a curly-haired, handsome _as hell_ boy walked into the room with a loping grace, adorning dark, black skinny jeans, a simple white v-neck tee, and a dark leather jacket. A pair of black wayfarers was settled on the top of his mess of black curls. Finn had to kick Kurt discreetly in order for Kurt to regain whatever was left of his icy dignity.

Kurt immediately shut his gaping mouth and sat up straight once more as the boy walked straight into Principal Figgins' office.

"Oh my god," Kurt breathed, his voice quivering. Finn smirked. He _knew _his brother.

"Good luck pretending _not_ to be gay."

Kurt aimed a kick at his brother. "Shut up. Just shut the fuck up, _Finn_," he hissed quietly.

"My name's not Finn now, is it? So that doesn't apply to me. And don't forget. Watch your voice. Oh, man your Kurterisms," Finn winked as the door to Principal Figgins' office door opened again, and small man walked out with the v-necked boy. Kurt's heart leapt slightly when he saw the boy's striking, hazel-green eyes.

"Michael and Elijah, this is Blaine Anderson. He'll be your student helper. He's been at McKinley since his the second semester of his freshman year; so his knowledge of school happenings will help you two get on all right here. I hope you enjoy your first day. Blaine," Principal Figgins said with a smile (though Kurt noticed that it was a very wary one, indeed), patting Blaine Anderson on the shoulder. The boy gave a smug smile as the principal turned around and walked back into the office.

"Well," he said bluntly. "Let's go then," and he walked out of the office ahead of them. Finn gave his brother a look of uncertainty, and then looked back into the office. Figgins was busy writing something, face looking down at the desk.

"Uh, as he said, let's go," Finn cleared his throat, and the two brothers immediately stood up, Jansport backpacks slung over their shoulders. They hurried out of the office, and tried to catch up with Blaine Anderson, who was already halfway down the hallway.

"Hey!" Kurt exclaimed. Blaine stopped in his tracks, hands in his pockets, giving them both appraising looks. "Hold up."

"Class schedule," Blaine said bluntly, holding his hand out. Kurt folded his arms and frowned as Finn dug into his pockets. "Come on, I don't have all day."

Finn handed Blaine his schedule awkwardly, and Blaine peered at it and shrugged. "What about you, Pinocchio?" he asked Kurt, whose mouth fell open. Kurt flung his schedule at Blaine, who caught it as it fluttered into the air.

"Dude, what the hell is your problem?" Finn snapped. Kurt looked absolutely livid. Blaine shrugged and turned to Kurt.

"Thanks, Pinocchio, but don't even fucking try."

"If you weren't being such a dick," Kurt said through gritted teeth, "Then maybe I wouldn't have tried that at all."

Blaine winked and compared the brothers' schedules. "So you've both got Schuester for homeroom. Just continue walking down this hallway and shit, and then you'll see his classroom—more like the gates to hell. It's pretty stupid and pointless. Alright, see you," he announced, giving them their schedules back. He turned on his heel and started walking down the hallway again.

"HEY! I was talking to you!" Kurt said loudly. A door opened and an elderly teacher held her finger up to her mouth, signaling Kurt to shut up. Kurt blushed immediately as he muttered a 'sorry' to the teacher, who grumpily slammed her door shut. Blaine turned around again, smirking.

"What?"

"You're supposed to be our student…helper, or whatever the hell that's supposed to be."

"I helped you. Told you where Schue's room was. Now, run along, new kids," Blaine rolled his eyes, waving his hands in the brothers' direction. "I don't have any fucking time to take care of you two."

"You're a douche bag," Finn grumbled under his breath, gripping his stepbrother's shoulder tightly as Kurt was about ready to run up to the shorter boy and punch him in the face. "He's not worth it, bro. We're taller than him, anyway."

Kurt was fuming, and obviously left breathless. Blaine Anderson was already gone, obviously not heading to his class—and obviously not helping them head to their class. "First fucking day and I hate it already. We haven't even been to our classes yet. What a dickhead. He's good-looking, but I can tell he's the biggest fucking douche bag in this world, you know? You know, if he screws us over one more time, I'm going to—"

"Let's go, come on," Finn sighed, guiding Kurt forward. "God, Kurt, you were never this mouthy before."

"Well, obviously, this is what happens when I'm extremely pissed off."

"Wow, first guy you think is relatimely good-looking turns out to be a total dick."

"It's _relatively_, damn it. And don't you dare remind me. He even looks straighter than a board."

The two brothers walked down the hallway, schedules in their hands, looking around for Mr. Schuester's homeroom class.

* * *

><p>"Welcome to McKinley, boys!" Mr. Schuester, their homeroom teacher—a tall man with hair that probably had an ungodly amount of product in it—said cheerfully. "Guys, quiet down. We have new students today. They just transferred here from Los Angeles," he said, to the obviously uninterested batch of students sitting in front of them. "Do you guys think you can introduce yourselves?"<p>

_Um, yes, I am perfectly capable of communicating with my peers_, Kurt thought. _Evidently, you, sir, need to learn how to ask proper questions_.

"Michael Henderson," Finn said quickly.

"Elijah Henderson," Kurt muttered, arms folded. "Pleasure."

A large, African American boy looked up from his desk. "Boy, your balls haven't dropped yet? You got a high voice. You might as well go on with Justin Bieber 'cause ya'll seem one and the same," he cackled. Kurt shot him daggers with his eyes. _Oh, how I want to say 'fuck you' and throw the bottles of all the products Schuester probably uses in his hair at you. _

_Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you. _"Excuse me," Kurt snapped almost nervously, his voice piquing another octave, to the laughs of the students in the class. He blushed furiously and looked down at the floor.

"Azimio," Mr. Schuester snapped. "That was uncalled for."

_Seriously, is that all you can tell your uncouth students? _Kurt thought scathingly.

Azimio laughed, hi-fiving his seatmate, a somewhat bulky young man with short-cropped brown hair.

"You have to excuse them, boys. They tend to act out a little," Mr. Schuester said apologetically. "So, find a seat in the back, and get situated. And—hold on, I thought you guys were with your student helper?"

"More like our non-existent student helper," Kurt muttered under his breath. "Oh, he didn't come."

Mr. Schuester took a deep breath and ran his hand down his face. "Blaine," he muttered. The entire class attempted to suppress their giggles.

Kurt and Finn nodded. "Sorry about that, boys. You see, Blaine's a bit of a trouble-maker, and we made him a student helper in the first place as punishment, a way for him to redeem himself…"

The door flew open, and said boy entered the room with a casual, loping grace. He walked right past Kurt, Finn, and Mr. Schuester, and hi-fived several people (who obviously looked a little bit scared of him) in front before taking his seat in the back, feet upon his desk, hands resting on his chest. _Apparently_, thought Kurt, _this is normal. _

"Hey, Mr. Schue. Frankenstein. Pinocchio," he winked, making a gun-like hand gesture towards them. He made a little _bam _sound, and pushed his sunglasses down on his face.

"Blaine," Mr. Schuester snapped. Blaine flipped up his sunglasses and gave the Spanish and homeroom teacher an apathetic stare. "You were supposed to bring Elijah and Michael here, and come straight back."

"Well, shit, it looks like I forgot." Blaine laughed.

"Did you leave the building to smoke again?"

"Ha, obvious-fucking-ly," Blaine snorted.

Mr. Schuester went straight to his desk and pulled out a pad of small, pink slips. "Detention, _again_, Anderson. Go back to Figgins' office. This is the fifth time this school year—when are you going to learn?"

Blaine rolled his eyes and stood up, walking towards Schuester, snatching the pink slip from him in irritation. He turned to Finn and Kurt, his eyes lingering on Kurt for a brief second. Kurt cleared his throat, and his breath hitched for a brief moment as Blaine's hazel-green eyes met his blue-green ones. However, all he could discern from the split-second look was a mix of anger and irritation, making Kurt look away quickly.

"I'm going to inform Figgins that you're on your way again," Schuester called out as Blaine walked out of the classroom. He turned back, frustrated, to face Kurt and Finn. "Sorry again, boys. Go ahead and have a seat."

Finn and Kurt turned around to face the class again, walking towards the back row. It turned out that there were only two seats available: the one next to Blaine's old seat, and one next to a girl with dark-brown hair with bangs, and a very Barbra Streisand-esque nose—and their seats were on opposite sides of the room.

"I'll sit next to her," Finn muttered. "At least we're sitting in the same row?" he asked, trying to give his brother a thumbs-up. They separated.

"Fuck," Kurt muttered under his breath as he sat down next to Blaine Anderson's empty seat.

Kurt sniffed the air around him—it smelled slightly of a…he had to admit, nice blend of peppermints, a very expensive cologne, and…cigarettes. Indeed, the boy had been smoking, and used his "punishment" to treat himself to a good, five-minute smoke. Kurt straightened in his seat and pulled out his leather planner and began to copy down his schedule. The rest of the class had gone back to "normal," ignoring him and talking to each other. He looked over to Finn, who had already begun an animated conversation with the brown-haired girl and felt a pang of jealousy.

* * *

><p>"I'll talk to you later, Rachel," Finn said with a smile as he went to meet his brother once homeroom ended. He turned to face Kurt, who looked livid. "She's really cool, man. She's in that glee club, and I told her you can sing—"<p>

"_Finn—Michael_. No one is supposed to know that," Kurt snapped back quietly as they filed out of the classroom behind everyone else. He looked up and noticed the Rachel girl lingering by the door, eyes remaining on Finn adoringly. "Seriously, Finn, you're going to compromise the situation if you—"

"Sorry, sorry! "

"Well, let's get to our next class."

"I've got Spanish here, though…"

"Goddamn it, I forgot," Kurt muttered under his breath, looking at his schedule again. "I guess I'm alone this time. I'll see you at lunch, then," he muttered, walking out the door grumpily. Finn waved at Rachel, who waved back happily.

As Kurt walked past the door, he felt a hand on his shoulder.

He turned around and saw the Rachel girl, grinning broadly at him.

"Hello, you must be Elijah, Michael's brother."

Kurt blinked. "Uhm. Yes, I am, obviously."

"Michael told me that you are quite a good singer, and our glee club is a sectional-regional winning one. We _do_ need more male singers in the club, and you would make a perfect backup singer—what is your range?" she said all in one breath. Kurt stared at her, repressing a snort. There was a girl much like her in his old show choir.

"I'm…I'm a countertenor," he muttered, and then turned on his heel to walk down the hallway to his AP English class. _Shit. Should not have said that. Fuck my automatic answering. _

"Wait! Elijah!" he heard Rachel shout. He rolled his eyes as the _obviously _friendly girl caught up with him. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me. I'm Rachel Berry, the lead star of the McKinley High New Directions. Say, you really look familiar. I think I saw you at Nationals last year—"

Kurt's eyes widened. He had a sudden flashback to last year's National Show Choir Competition back in New York: he had just come back from the bathroom when the New Directions finished their song, and he remembered Rachel's face and the high note she belted with an echoing finality. _HOW COULD I HAVE FORGOTTEN?_

"Nah, I've never been to New York. Michael and I are from Los Angeles," he shrugged. "Um, I've got to go to class."

"You should join, still!" Rachel called as he shuffled down the hallway awkwardly. He looked right down at the floor, his heart beating fast, and collided into what seemed like a large, brick wall, and he fell to the ground.

"Fuck," he muttered, rubbing his back gingerly. He looked up and saw the two jocks from his homeroom class standing in front of him, arms folded. "Shit."

"Yo, Justin Bieber," the brown-haired boy snorted.

Kurt stood up immediately and looked at them up and down. They were in bright-red letterman jackets, Big Gulp slushie cups in their hands.

"I'm sorry, did a football hit your heads? My name is Elijah Henderson." Kurt brushed off his flannel and started to walk off, but he felt a thick hand grab his shoulder and push him into the lockers roughly. He felt a searing pain in his back and winced, staring at the jocks.

And that was when he felt something icy-cold, hard, and flavorful hit his face.

"We were gonna save this for them glee kids, but that's what you get, Bieber! You better watch your ass! More like, we need to watch our own asses because you might spread your gayness across the hallways!"

He heard the jocks laugh loudly and walk away down the hallway. Kurt's eyes stung; he wiped the slushie from his eye and stood there, back aching, head throbbing madly.

None of the students seemed to react…it was as if this was normal. _Normal_. He looked down the hallway; many students parted like the Red Sea when Azimio and his friend passed by.

He flinched when he felt a gentler hand touch his shoulder. It was Rachel Berry.

"That was David Karofsky who slushied you."

"Thanks for telling me," Kurt growled, his lower lip quivering angrily as he pulled out a handkerchief and walked straight for the bathroom. "Fat lot it did to help me out there."

"Come on, I'll help you clean up," she said nervously, giving him a small, but encouraging smile.

"No, I'm fine," Kurt said stubbornly. He picked up his backpack by the hook, his shoulders aching, and walked straight for the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him.

* * *

><p>Kurt adored the French language, but knew he was going to hate his Advanced French class the moment he walked in.<p>

Blaine Anderson was sitting in the middle row of the classroom, leaning back in his chair again, hands behind his head. One of his dark eyebrows rose as Kurt entered the room, and he immediately looked away—he looked right at the floor. Kurt frowned and sat in the row in front of him—it was the only other empty desk in the room, and took out his notebook to copy down things the teacher was already writing on the board. Again, the familiar smell of cigarettes and peppermints wafted into his nose.

"_Parley vou francey?"_ he heard Blaine's rough voice say mockingly behind him. Kurt remained cool, keeping his eyes on the chalkboard. He shifted uncomfortably; his hair was still wet and he hadn't found a shirt to change into.

"_Je ne savais pas que vous parle le français _(I didn't know you spoke French)_,_" Kurt replied, still not facing him. Blaine took his chair and scooted up to his desk.

"Well, obviously I do since I'm in fucking French IV. Heard you got slushied earlier, Henderson."

Kurt was taken aback.

"What's it to you? Wish you could have done it?" he snapped, looking at Blaine angrily. His hair was still drying from when he washed it earlier, so when he turned his head, some water droplets splashed onto Blaine's face. "Sorry," he muttered, turning back down to face his notebook.

"Whatever," Blaine rolled his eyes, moving back to his seat. "And no, I don't fucking slushie people, that's Karofsky and Azimio's job."

"Friends with them?" Kurt muttered.

"Hell fucking no," Blaine laughed.

The teacher, Mme. Farland, cleared her throat, and the class immediately silenced. She began her lesson, speaking at full-speed. Kurt took a deep breath. Finally, a class that would challenge him.

"Henderson."

Kurt heard a soft tap on his shoulder while he was taking down slang vocabulary. He spun around to face Blaine, who merely gave him a smile and a shrug. "_What_?"

He whispered back, "Nothing."

Kurt rolled his eyes and went back to writing.

He felt another tap on his shoulder. This time, he ignored it, but the tapping continued.

"_WHAT_?" Kurt shouted, the class falling completely silent. Mademoiselle Farland paused, staring at Kurt angrily, her arms folded. "_Je suis désolé, mademoiselle_," he said sheepishly, his face turning red.

"_Vous sont _Elijah Henderson_, ai-je raison?_ (You are Elijah Henderson, am I correct?)" she asked. Kurt nodded.

"_Oui, Mademoiselle."_

"_Monsieur __Henderson, la première règle que vous ne serez jamais apprendre dans ma classe est d'écouter et de ne pas interrompre._ (Mr. Henderson, the first rule you will ever learn in my class is to listen and never interrupt.)_"_

"_Je suis désolé, Mademoiselle, j'ai été…distrait_. (I'm sorry, Mademoiselle, but I was…distracted.)" Kurt took a shuddering breath and tried to regain his dignity by sitting up straight and looking his teacher in the eye. "It won't happen again."

"I sure hope not," she sighed, and went back to her lesson. The other students went back to work, but Kurt could feel their eyes on him, and he could sense that Blaine Anderson was smiling that huge, smug grin of his.

Despite how highly attractive and charismatic Blaine Anderson was, a little part of Kurt couldn't help but hate him.

* * *

><p>"I hate it here," Kurt grumbled to Finn, when he arrived at the front door of the cafeteria. The two brothers walked in, grabbed trays from the rack and immediately went in line. "I hate it here so much."<p>

"Why do you smell like fruit flavoring?" Finn asked, eyebrows furrowing. Kurt rolled his eyes and let out a sigh. "Wait, why are you wet?"

"Apparently, the greeting for new students is a slushie facial."

"Slushie facial?" Finn snorted, but then his tone immediately became serious. "Really, dude, what happened?"

"I was walking down the hallway, bumped into those two jocks from homeroom, I got a slushie thrown in my face, and then got pushed into a locker. It's nothing," Kurt grumbled, grabbing an apple as they moved up in the line.

"Are you fucking serious?" Finn growled, looking around the cafeteria. "Where the fuck are they? I'm going to—"

"Calm yourself, Frankenteen," Kurt snapped. "I'm okay."

"No, you're not—your slouching a little, you never slouch!"

"Seriously, Fi—Michael, calm down."

"Next time they do that to you, call me, Ku…Elijah. I'll kick their asses for you."

"They're Neanderthals, that's what they are. Forget them."

Finn gave him an incredulous look. "Forget them, my ass."

"Shhh, Finn, Rachel Berry's coming this way," Kurt hissed, handing his tray to the lunch lady who handed him a healthy portion of tater tots. He grimaced and then gave the lady a kind smile, moving up in line.

"Michael! Elijah!"

"Hi, Rachel," Finn said with a goofy smile. Kurt rolled his eyes.

"Hi, Rachel."

"Um, again," Rachel said politely, wringing her hands together, "I would like to invite you both to join the glee club. As you can see, we are recruiting members, and we would love to have the both of you!"

"I'm sorry, I don't sing," Finn said sheepishly, pursing his lips.

"Well…you could always try! And Elijah," she said, turning to Kurt, "I'm sorry, I should have warned you about earlier, I could have pulled you away before you walked right into Azimio and Karofsky—"

"It's okay, it's fine," Kurt said, reassuring her. His head was beginning to ache; he was incredibly annoyed with everyone and everything in Ohio.

"Anyway…I'll be sitting with some of my fellow glee-clubbers. We sit near the back, by the glass doors. If you guys want to sit with us, you can if you want to!"

_What is this, kindergarten? _Kurt thought. "Sure…we'll think about it."

"Alright. I shall see you guys soon," Rachel said, waving as she walked back to her table. Kurt and Finn watched her sit down next to a boy in a wheelchair, an African-American girl, an Asian couple, and boy with a mohawk.

"Should we?" Finn asked, a little hopeful.

"Maybe not today," Kurt mumbled. "They usually slushie the glee kids, at least that's what I discerned from their tyranny earlier."

"Alright," Finn agreed.

* * *

><p>The entire day went by in a blur. Calculus was tough for Kurt, but he had taken prerequisites at Brenton. AP Government was a breeze—Kurt was a natural debater and knew the U.S. government system inside out, but the downside was that it was no longer a challenge for him. Human anatomy was like biology again. Introduction to Theater was a joke. Finally, it was the last period of the day—P.E.<p>

Physical education was the one class Kurt was dreading.

He _was _a physically fit young man. He just hated the class with a burning passion, and as soon as he step foot into the McKinley High gymnasium, he knew immediately that it was no state-of-the-art gym like the one at Brenton Preparatory.

Several guys and girls had already changed into their P.E. uniforms—the girls in microscopic red shorts and white shirts with the McKinley logo, the boys in red gym shorts with grey shirts with the same logo—and Kurt looked around helplessly for the teacher.

"New kid!" he heard an adult's voice bark behind him. Kurt spun around and saw a tall, muscled man with a receding hairline standing before him, whistle in hand. "Henderson, right?"

"Y—Yes, sir," Kurt spluttered, immediately standing straighter.

"Aren't there two of you? I heard I'm getting you and…a Michael Henderson?"

_He's obviously not here yet_.

Kurt was about to open his mouth, but just then, the doors opened, and Finn walked in, bag slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry I'm late, sir—"

"That's Coach Reddy to you. Uniforms!" the man barked, throwing Finn and Kurt their red shorts and grey t-shirts. "Locker combinations!" he exclaimed, handing them slips of paper. Kurt looked at his uniform in disgust as they both walked towards the locker room.

"These are gross."

"It's the same kind of uniform we had at Brenton," Finn reasoned as they looked for their lockers, which were near the back of the locker room. "Just…our shirt was white and our shorts were maroon."

"I don't know, these look suspicious," Kurt muttered, scrutinizing the material. "Well, let's get go—"

"What are you boys waiting for in there, Christmas?" the coach shouted from the door. Finn and Kurt hurried, stuffed their things in their respective lockers, and dashed out of the locker room to join the class as soon as possible.

They fell in line with the rest of the class—the left side of the gym for the boys, and the left side for the girls. Some of the girls were eyeing Kurt and Finn interestedly, which made Kurt slightly uncomfortable, yet flattered at the same time.

"I think the blonde chick, the cheerleader—I think she's looking at you, Kurt," Finn whispered to Kurt as Coach Reddy barked the details of the class to them.

"The daffy-looking one?" Kurt whispered back, looking at the tall, blonde girl in the ponytail. He grinned.

"Yeah." Finn tried to suppress his laughter, but then Coach Reddy ended up in front of his face, fuming.

"What are you laughing about, Hendersons?" he said to both Kurt and Finn, tiny flecks of spit landing on their faces. Kurt shifted uncomfortably.

"Nothing, coach," they both said at the same time. Coach Reddy frowned.

"Outside. Ten laps around the track. Now!" he roared, pointing at the door. "Both boys and girls! NOW!"

The entire class groaned and looked at Kurt and Finn angrily, filing outside the door immediately. Everyone began running around the large track, Finn and Kurt around the middle of the line.

"I think the Latina girl was looking at you too," Kurt huffed as they turned a corner. Finn bit his lip.

"She's kinda hot, you know."

"I thought you thought the Rachel girl was hot?"

"She is, but then…I don't know, the other girl is—"

"Hi," a voice said sweetly behind them. They turned around, still running, the daffy-looking blonde girl and the Latina girl running right behind them. "I'm Brittany S. Pierce."

"Excuse me?" Kurt asked, breathing heavily. "Did you just say 'Britney Spears'?"

"No, she's a name-stealer," Brittany huffed.

"I'm Santana Lopez," the Latina girl said, winking at Finn. Kurt went rigid and nearly stopped, but gravity got the best of him, and he nearly fell flat on his face.

The two girls ran off, giggling into the distance. Finn stopped and pulled Kurt up, and they continued running, but slower.

"Oh my god, her last name is Lopez—"

Finn stared at him. "That doesn't mean she's related to Rodrigo and Edward, though…"

"I know, I…" Kurt groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I just…I just…I'm over th—"

"Hey, Henderson!" a familiar voice drawled from the bleachers. Kurt turned around to see Blaine Anderson peeking out from behind one of the sets, a cigarette in hand. He rolled his eyes and kept running.

"What the fuck do you want?" Kurt snapped as Blaine jumped onto the bleachers and started running on them to follow Kurt and Finn.

"Just stay the hell away," Finn growled.

"Just wanted to join in on a little physical education," he said slyly, nodding his head towards Brittany and Santana, who were beginning to catch up with Finn and Kurt. "So, what's it like bonding with the track pavement?"

"Go bond with the bleachers, Anderson," Kurt snapped.

"ANDERSON!" Coach Reddy's voice boomed. "I TOLD YOU TO STAY AWAY FROM MY LAST PERIOD CLASS!"

"Fuck you too, Coach!" Blaine said loudly.

"Blaine, get the fuck down from there!" a female voice hissed from under the bleachers. A flash of pink hair was running along with them under the bleachers. "Reddy's going to get Figgins and we'll be in a shit ton of trouble again."

"Hold up, Quinnie," Blaine huffed, stopping right in front of Kurt and Finn. "So, Henderson."

"I WARNED YOU, ANDERSON!"

"What?" Kurt asked exasperatedly.

"…Nothing," Blaine winked, and then he jumped behind the bleachers again, leaving his cigarette behind on the pavement where Kurt and Finn ran.

"WHAT ARE YOU BOYS DOING?" Coach Reddy shouted. "KEEP RUNNIN'!"

Finn and Kurt jumped and kept on running until Reddy told them all to stop.

* * *

><p>"This is bullshit," Kurt groaned as they finished dressing up in their normal outfits and walking out of the campus. "I'm aching all over."<p>

"That's because you haven't done a sport since the eighth grade," Finn chastised as they walked to their car.

From a distance, Blaine Anderson stood with the pink-haired girl he called Quinnie, watching Kurt and Finn from a distance.

"Why the fuck are you so interested in them—rather, the stuck-up looking prick?" Quinn drawled, pushing the butt of her cigarette onto the brick wall behind them. "They're just new kids."

"Exactly," Blaine blinked as they walked away. "I've got to go."

"Ah, go fuck your cheerleading ho?" Quinn laughed.

"Got that right, bitch," Blaine winked, walking away.

* * *

><p>Blaine Anderson was perfectly sure of five things: his reputation, his ability to get out of shitty situations, his ability to kiss better than whoever King of All Kisses was, his ability to charm people <em>because<em> of his reputation, and his impeccably perfect grades—but he preferred to keep his beautiful four-point-oh GPA on the down-low, just in case it ruined his reputation. He knew that McKinley High School wasn't the place to flaunt your intelligence. It was just wrong. It would disrupt the balance of power in the school. According to Jacob Ben-Israel's latest poll in McKinley's _Muckraker, _Blaine was rated number one on McKinley's "Hot List" for the school year 2011-2012, knocking Noah Puckerman down by nearly forty percent.

"_Of course you're the number one badass_," his friend—well, best friend, since they pretty much only had each other—Quinn Fabray always snorted whenever they smoked together behind the bleachers. "_Puckerman wouldn't do half the shit you do."_

"_Oh, I'm sure he'd do some other shit worse than me," _Blaine would scoff back.

But, in hindsight, there was one thing he was perfectly unsure of revealing to the masses: his sexuality.

The king didn't want to lose his crown, or get slushied like the silly dorks who were in glee club or the A.V. club. The footballers were scared to slushie him.

He hadn't thought this way since middle school and his freshman year of high school, when the _situation _happened at his old school.

Then again, he _still _wasn't sure about himself. He thought he was when he was fourteen, but now he was eighteen, and there was _not _a fuck to give about his fourteen year-old self. He swore he'd get over it, he promised his father.

So, why did it feel so wrong to be making out with Santana Lopez in the back of his tinted Volvo every freaking Friday? Why did it feel so wrong to have her whisper things in his ear? Why did it feel so wrong for his hand to reach below her waist and dangerously close inside her Cheerio skirt? Why did it feel so wrong when their lips collided, their tongues snaking into each other's mouths? The way she tugged at his unruly curls? His father would have been appalled that he was thinking this way, and hate him even more than he already did. Maybe she wasn't the right girl. Of course she wasn't.

Or…maybe it was because he was thinking of that new boy, the new senior class transferee, Elijah Henderson, and how he would have _loved _to pin him down anywhere and do him senseless. Him and his beautiful, striking blue-green eyes, his red-hot ferocity. He had just met him, too, so it pissed him off to no end. It was bringing back too many memories.

"_Why the fuck are you so interested in them—rather, the stuck-up looking prick?" _he remembered Quinn asking.

_Fuck those eyes. Fuck his voice. Fuck his French accent. Fuck the way he looked in that v-neck. And those jeans. Fuck those jeans._ _Fuck his everything_. _Fuck him._

"Ugh, fuck, Anderson," Santana moaned, leaning her head back as Blaine trailed kisses down her neck. She pushed Blaine back in a lying-down position in the seat and positioned herself on top of his lap, straddling him. He opened his eyes and blinked, staring at the roof of his car as Santana continued to kiss him, and slowly unzip his pants.

And in that brief moment, he stopped kissing back.

Santana opened her eyes, immediately stopped, and stared at him. "What?"

Blaine licked his lips uncertainly.

"Anderson, I was about to take off your fucking pants. Are we getting this on or not? Because if not, me and my lady-lips are about ready to jet off."

"Off." Blaine cocked his head sideways impatiently, and Santana rolled her eyes and slid off him and sat on the chair, arms folded, her face screwed up in blatant irritation.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? We always do this every Friday."

Blaine blurted it out before he could stop himself. "This is wrong, Lopez." _Damn it. _

"Oh, God, Anderson. What Sam doesn't know won't hurt him. We both talked about this a month ago. You satisfy me, I satisfy you. Besides, Sam's at football practice right now. There's no fucking chance he'll see us."

Blaine sat up and furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance, running a hand through his curly hair. "I think you should go," he said in a strangled voice.

"Fine, I have glee club in a few minutes, anyway."

He looked at her incredulously. "Why the fuck do you even bother with glee club?"

"I'm not like you and Fabray, eyebrows. It actually makes my day in some weird, artsy way."

"Fine, then go and sway in the background with Rachel Berry stealing all of the damn solos for all I fucking care."

Santana rolled her eyes, huffed, and threw the back door of his Volvo open, and stormed out, slamming it shut immediately. Blaine took a deep, shuddering breath and leaned over on his legs, putting his head between his knees. He was beginning to feel dizzy—that familiar feeling of vertigo, the way his stomach acid went up his esophagus. But he held it back. He leaned back on his seat, his chest heaving. He went for his backpack, digging for his pack of Marlboro Lights, and when he couldn't find them, he took a deep breath and shuddered.

_What the hell is wrong with me? Fucking hell, not again. _

He opened the passenger door and immediately transferred to the driver's seat. Blaine revved the engine and drove off to the one place he knew would calm him down, going home be damned.

* * *

><p>The front door to the Hudson-Hummel home opened in a flurry, and Finn and Kurt entered. Burt looked up from the newspaper he was reading and smiled, but Kurt gave him a blank stare that clearly exuded frustration, threw his backpack in a corner, and stormed upstairs. Finn bit his lip and looked up at his brother running up the stairs, and back to his stepfather, who sighed and folded his newspaper.<p>

"How was your first day?" he asked, clearing his throat. Finn gave him a guilty look, pursing his lips, and followed in his brother's stride, walking up the stairs dejectedly. Burt took a deep breath and let it out angrily and stood up, following his two sons, and going straight to Kurt's bedroom. He would talk to Finn later. He was taken aback at the sound of things being thrown about Kurt's bedroom: he heard the boy cry out angrily, flinging his boxes everywhere.

When he opened the door to the bedroom, Burt found Kurt lying face-down on his bed; his face was buried in his pillow, clothes and books strewn everywhere, boxes turned upside-down. Sighing, he sat down on the foot of Kurt's bed. The seventeen year-old looked up from his pillow, saw his father, and then continued to bury his face into the plush, black pillow.

"You still alive, kiddo?"

Kurt let out an irritated grunt in response.

"Well, okay," Burt responded awkwardly, shifting his position to face Kurt. "You wanna talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about?" Kurt mumbled dolefully. "Today was shit."

Burt frowned. "Don't use that language around me, Kurt."

Kurt looked up and rolled his eyes. "Fine. _Sorry. _Today was _terrible_, to be perfectly honest with you. I hate McKinley already. The teachers are terrible. I mean, seriously, a kid called me out today and said 'you have a voice like Justin Bieber' or some crap like that, and the freaking teacher did nothing about it; he just told the kid 'it was out of line' or whatever, and the kids are less than welcoming. I hate being called 'Henderson' or 'Elijah' or names like that. I want to be Kurt Freaking Hummel again."

"Not every school is like Brenton."

"Obviously."

Burt patted his son's shoulder comfortingly. Kurt gripped his hand back tightly. "I'm sorry, scooter. This really is bringing you down, isn't it?"

"I'm full of _ennui_." Kurt let out a sigh. Burt remembered him saying this two years ago, during his sophomore year when the Brenton music department was hesitant about him singing the solo for a song from _Sunrise Avenue_. "Really, dad, of all the places in this damn country, they pick _Ohio_, the most homophobic state on the planet."

"We'll get used to it. I have to admit, it is really weird hearing people call me 'Brad' and all of that crap as well."

"Dad, you're not the one who has to crawl back into the closet."

"Did you find a club you could join to fill in your times of boredom?"

Kurt shook his head. "Not yet. I heard they have a glee club, but I didn't know where the choir room was, and I'm guessing that if I sang in that club, I would be outed immediately, and no one _wants that_," he said bitterly. "Seriously, freaking _Justin Bieber_. Dad, I miss singing. I really, really do. I miss choral competitions."

"You'll find your voice again, I promise you. Like what your mom used to say, '_Despite being caged, birds always find their voices again_.' Something like that. Remember?"

"I miss her. She would know what to do in a situation like this," Kurt whispered hoarsely. Burt looked at his son's other hand, and saw him clutching the last family photo they took before Elizabeth passed away. Burt swallowed the lump in his throat and ruffled his son's hair.

"I love you, Kurt. There'll come a time where this will all tide over and you'll be able to be yourself again."

"I love you too, Dad."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<br>**

Thoughts? Please leave a review, anonymous or not, or drop a random 'hello' in my Tumblr ask. My username is dietcrisscolfer.

Plus, I would love to have a beta. Is anyone willing? :) Plus, whoever finds the Starkid reference wins a cookie!


	4. Defense Mechanism

**Disclaimer:  
><strong>I don't own Glee, unfortunately. I am also not an expert at the whole WitSec business-I created this story using my research, and took quite a few creative liberties, at that.

_Also, I am so sorry I haven't updated this story in about a month. I've been barreled with projects and essays for school, so I really haven't had the time to write fics (well, I've had time to write drabbles...)! I also want to take the time to thank those who have alerted (holy shit, almost 200 alerts?), reviewed, and favorited WPP! My love for all of you is endless! _

_My beta hasn't been able to get back to me, so here you go, episode four, un-beta'd. I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

><p><strong>Witness Protection Problem<strong>  
>by <em>littlemusings<em>  
>Episode 4:<em> Defense Mechanism<em>

* * *

><p><em>"Fabray."<em>

Quinn's petite voice echoed from the other line. "_Anderson. To what do I owe this pleasure?_" she mocked.

"Cut the shit. Can I come over?" Blaine asked desperately, his voice strained.

"_Yeah, are you on your way already?_" she asked. "_My mom's out until later. Something about some dude taking her on a date._"

"That's fucking gross," Blaine snorted, trying to keep his tone lively.

"_I know_," she agreed. "_Wait, are you driving? What the fuck, man?_"

Blaine turned a corner towards the Lima Heights area of town. "Yeah. What difference does it make? It's not like I haven't done this before."

"_I'm gonna sound like a prude, but holy fuck, Blaine, watch where you're driving. Remember that one time you nearly crashed into that damn lamp post by school?_" Quinn laughed. Suddenly, her tone became more serious. "_You sure you're okay?_"

"You sound like your mother," Blaine coughed, entering a cul-de-sac of small, blue houses. "I'm in."

"_Fuck you!"_ Quinn exclaimed, laughing as she hung up. Blaine parked in front of one of the houses—which was better kept than the ones around it—and got out of his Volvo, slamming the door furiously. He walked up to the door, and Quinn finally opened it. She donned a pair of red flannel pajama pants and a Misfits shirt, arms folded across her chest.

Blaine walked right in, shaking, sitting on her couch. Quinn hurriedly closed the door and sat next to him.

"What the hell, dude? Are you okay?" she asked concernedly. She stared at him, flabbergasted. Blaine ran a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Do you have any smokes on you?"

"Hold on." Quinn got off the couch in a flourish and disappeared up the staircase. Moments later, she arrived back in the living room with a pack of Menthols and a lighter. "Let's go to the backyard. My mom's going to throw a bitch fit if she smells the smoke later. The Skanks just left, and I was just airing out the place."

Blaine nodded. The Skanks were Quinn's little minions, wannabe bad girls who followed her around—and they tended to dote on Blaine. He wasn't particularly fond of them, so Quinn spent equal amounts of time with the girls and Blaine separately—though it seemed like she preferred Blaine to the three other girls.

Seconds later, the two friends were standing outside, leaning on Quinn's backyard fence.

"What's wrong, Bee?" Quinn asked concernedly, making circlets with her smoke. Blaine took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure, keeping his mind focused on his cigarette.

"You haven't called me 'Bee' for the longest time."

"Do I give a fuck? Clearly, I don't. Now what made you so eager to drive over here? Wanted to see my beautiful mug?" she mocked, laughing to herself. Blaine gave a small, mirthless smirk.

"I…I just needed to get away from things for a while."

"Okay. Yeah." Quinn's expression softened. "Sure. I'm down with that."

* * *

><p>Kurt lay flat on his stomach, reading through James Joyce's <em>A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man <em>for Advanced Placement English Literature, frowning every few seconds at the lines he read. He flipped over onto his back, holding the book over his head, turning a page interestedly. The main character, Stephen Dedalus, was currently suffering through an inner religious conflict, and Kurt was interested in seeing how this was going to end—after all, he had nothing to do. Carole and Burt had gone out to the local grocery store and wouldn't be back until later.

_Ding-dong. _

He frowned and shut the book, rolling back over on his stomach. He quirked an eyebrow and ignored the doorbell, opening the book again. _"Opposed to this pain of extension and yet co-existent with it we have the pain of intensity. Hell is the centre of evils and, as you know, things are more intense at their centres…_Wow, this man sounds like a loony."

_Ding-dong._

"Finn!" Kurt shouted. "Get the damn door!"

No response. Kurt furrowed his eyebrows and got off his bed, sighing loudly. Finn was probably fast asleep. He put his book down by his pillow and then walked out of his room and down the stairs of the house, shuffling in his sweats and striped t-shirt towards the foyer. Stopping by to grab a glass of milk from the kitchen, he chugged it down and opened the door. _Ding-dong_, the bell rang. "Coming! Coming!" he exclaimed, irritated.

He pulled the door open and saw Agent Motto standing there next to another man in a crisp, black suit. She was out of her stuffy, agent uniform, and now in a pair of jeans and an off-shoulder shirt. "Hello there, Elijah."

Kurt's eyes widened, and he let them in immediately. The man in the black suit didn't bother to give him a hello, so he followed them as they walked straight into the kitchen, sitting down around the breakfast counter.

"To what do I owe this visit?" Kurt asked, arms folded, looking at the two of them suspiciously. "We don't have to move _again_, do we?"

"No, that's far from what we've come here for," Agent Motto laughed brightly. Gone was the seriousness of the woman in the New York office. Kurt arched a thin eyebrow, leaning over the edge of the countertop.

"Then, what?"

"How was your first day, Kurt?"

Kurt made a face and said simply, "Terrible. You guys are so insane for picking a place so remote for us to live."

Agent Motto gave him a sympathetic look and patted his hand gently. "It wasn't us, Kurt. It was the higher-ups," she said. "I would have changed it right away, but it just wasn't possible, you know?"

He sighed and put his chin under the palm of his hand, toying with the basket of fake fruit Carole had placed on the center of the counter. "The kids here are stupid. Haven't got a clue about life, from what I perceived."

"It gets better," Agent Motto said simply. She looked at the man standing next to her. "Oh, and Kurt, this is Agent Ryan Malone. You'll see him from time-to-time."

For the first time since they arrived, Agent Malone spoke. "I have a stepbrother who's around your age. His name is Desmond. Goes to school in California. So I guess this is a mission from the heart or whatever."

"I see," Kurt said, nodding awkwardly. "So…you guys just came here to see what's up and all of that nonsense?"

The two nodded. "We wanted to see your parents, as well, but seeing as they're not home…"

"What about Finn? He's upstairs, I think."

"Could you call him down for us?" Agent Motto asked, looking around the house. "Even though you guys just moved in, the place looks spectacular."

"Thank Carole and I for that," Kurt whistled, walking around the table and up the stairs. "Finn! Get your ass down here! The agents are here to talk to us!"

Silence. Kurt frowned. "Well, I guess he's not here."

"Why? It's nearly eight p.m.," Motto said. She furrowed her eyebrows. "That's peculiar."

Kurt squared his shoulders. "He tends to do that. He's probably out on a run or something."

"Alright," Motto said wearily. "If anything happens, our numbers have been programmed onto your new phone, so…we'll let ourselves out."

The two agents walked out of the kitchen and into the foyer. "And Kurt," Motto said, "Remember to keep on the down-low for a while, okay?"

Kurt nodded as the agents left the house and drove out of their street. He sighed and locked the door, walking back up the stairs. He stopped before entering his room and pulled down the staircase leading to the attic. He heard a buzz of loud music and climbed up to investigate, finding Finn lying down in bed, reading through an _Avengers _comic, music blasting in his ears loudly. He walked up to his stepbrother and pulled the earphones off.

"What was that for?" Finn protested, trying to grab the headphones. Kurt rolled his eyes.

"The agents were here, and here you are, making yourself deaf and reading comics again," the blue-eyed boy grumbled, handing Finn his headphones back.

"Sorry," Finn said. He sighed exasperatedly, putting his headphones back on. Kurt held up a hand to stop him and he put them aside. "What?"

"Okay. Remind me to kick Blaine Anderson in the groin tomorrow for being a dickhead."

"I'm one step ahead of you, bro. I don't even know what his problem is."

"From what I have seen of him so far, he's just an attention whore and all of that stupid stuff."

Finn's eyes narrowed and he grinned at his stepbrother. "You like him, don't you? I could tell when he walked into the office this morning. You like the douche bag that threw your schedule at you! HA!"

Kurt pushed Finn and rolled his eyes. "Shut up. That's not cool, Finn, that's not cool. You're acting like a fifth grader," he said. "You know what I realized, too? You were eyeing Rachel Berry and those cheerleaders. Thinking of having a foursome?"

"Go away," Finn said, flushing red, whacking Kurt with his pillow. Kurt blocked it with his hands and stuck his tongue out at him.

"Just leveling the playing field…'_bro_,'" he said with sickening sweetness, grabbing the pillow and hugging it. Kurt let out a sigh and looked at the floor, his posture slack. "Do you really think things will get better? I don't mean to be a pessimist, because I personally think this is all total bullshit…but do you think they will?"

Finn chewed on his tongue as he thought about it. "Yeah. Yeah, I think they will. I mean, half the people in the school are fucked up—like that Blaine kid—" –Kurt frowned— "—and those football guys—did they really slushie you today? I can beat them up tomorrow."

"Finn, we may be related, but I can fight my own battles, thank you very much. And yes, they slushied me. It was a good flavor, anyway, so I'm over it. The next time they do, I'll make them sorry that they were even born for ruining my good flannel."

The taller boy smiled. "Just call me up if you need any backup. And yeah, though everyone is a bit fucked up…I think time's gonna tell us to buck up and deal with it, you know? This probably won't last very long."

"Same thing dad told me."

"That P.E. class, though…I think Reddy is out to get us," Finn said, chuckling. Kurt let out a small, hollow laugh.

"It'll be a miracle for us to pass the class, Finn. Well, you're an athlete above all, so I guess you'll do fine."

"You like running. You were in cross country two years ago."

"Yeah, _two years ago_. I slacked off on sports last year, so I'm way out of shape."

"Why not join McKinley's cross country team?"

Kurt gave him a look of disbelief. "Can't do a lot of the things I did back in New York, Finn. Remember our team went to nationals that year? My name and picture are on the roster and the articles…" he said dejectedly. "I'm going to be woefully thin on extra-curricular activities this year…"

"At least you got accepted into NYADA already," Finn supplied. Kurt nodded—he nearly forgot about that.

"Thank god for early admission and those damn scouts at Brenton. I'll be glad to get out of here. But the only problem is my name and all of this WPP bullshit. I kept on forgetting to ask Agent Motto about that. Maybe I'll ask her the next time she comes over, because I don't think I want to deal with her on the phone. We have another agent watching us, by the way."

"Who?"

"Malone…something. His last name is Malone. He's weird. Like, tall and stuff. Has a stepbrother in California named Desmond? What a funny name, 'Desmond'."

"I would change my name if I were called that," Finn said, letting out a snort. Kurt laughed along with him.

They heard a car drive into the driveway. "Sounds like mom and Burt are home. Jesus, it took them forever to go to the grocery store and back. Seriously, how much food does one person need?"

"Finn, living with you, one needs ten thousand grocery stores to supply themselves."

"Fuck you, Kurt."

"Gross, no way. Incestuous, much?"

Before Finn could digest what Kurt had said, the shorter boy had already dashed down the attic stairs and had started for the main staircase when the front door opened. Burt's voice echoed from below.

"Boys, we're home! We brought you some dinner!" he hollered. Before Kurt could take one step down the staircase, Finn was right ahead of him. He ran after his stepbrother and into the dining room, where Carole and Burt were putting the brown grocery bags down on the counter.

"Sucker!" Finn shouted at Kurt. "And I totally meant that figuratively!"

"Oh my god. Shut up, Frankenteen! Didn't think you knew that word!"

"I paid attention in English class last year, okay?"

"Well, Mister _Relatimely_, I don't think you paid that much attention!"

"Stop fighting, boys!"

* * *

><p>Kurt and Finn got off the school bus with the other McKinley students the next morning, tired and groggy. They had spend the evening discussing their day with Burt and Carole—it almost resulted in a near-shouting match between Kurt and his father <em>again<em> about cutting down on shopping ("I'm not spoiled!" "That's where you're wrong, Kurt!") —and it wore them out emotionally and physically as they trudged through the courtyard of McKinley High School.

"Day number two," Kurt said solemnly as they weaved through the crowd as they entered the main building. He pulled up the sleeve of his cardigan and let out a sigh. "I wonder what bullshi—"

"Good mornin', New Kid Bieber!"

_SLAM. _Kurt felt his left shoulder collide with an ice-cold row of lockers, and he slid down it, onto his bottom, face scrunched up in pain. Finn hurried to his side, and the perpetrators were already running away. He took note of their red letterman jackets. Again, no one batted an eyebrow towards his predicament.

"Goddamn it!" Kurt shouted. "Do not fuck with me!"

"I'll get them. Hold on," Finn said fiercely, getting ready to punch both Azimio and Karofsky, but Kurt pulled him down by the hem of his shirt.

"Don't. It'll just make them want to come back for more," he said through gritted teeth, standing up. He touched his shoulder gingerly. "I'm fine."

Finn was absolutely fuming. "Man, the next time they screw you over, I'm gonna sock them both in the face. Or, maybe when we get to homeroom I will."

"Just don't…Michael. They're not worthy of our beloved presence," Kurt spat.

The two brothers continued down the hallway and into their homeroom class. Not surprisingly, Azimio and Karofsky were laughing to themselves as soon as Kurt and Finn walked into the classroom. Rachel Berry was wide-awake and alert, in the same seat she sat in yesterday, waving to the two brothers. Finn and Kurt waved back sheepishly. Blaine Anderson, surprisingly enough, was lounging in his chair in the back.

"Want me to sit next to Anderson?" Finn asked quietly as they walked between the aisles of desks.

"No, it's okay. I've got it."

They fist-bumped and went their separate ways, Finn greeting Rachel brightly as he sat down. Kurt dropped his bag down by his seat and pulled his chair out, sitting in it, ignoring Blaine completely. He flexed his shoulder gingerly and winced, reaching down to pull out his copy of _A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man_.

"You looked quite fucked up, new kid," Blaine said simply, looking at him up and down. "What did you do? Did you pile drive Coach Reddy? Make love with the pavement again?"

"I do not need your bullshit this morning, Blaine Anderson. And my name is Elijah Henderson, if you didn't remember."

Blaine snorted. "Of course I remember. I'm your student helper."

"What a marvelous student helper _you_ turned out to be," Kurt said with as much venom in his voice as possible, giving him his New York-patented bitch glare. "Just mind your own business, will you?" He turned back to his book.

The shorter boy's eyes trailed to Kurt's injured shoulder. "Got pushed into the lockers?"

"Don't talk to me," Kurt snapped, holding up a finger to silence Blaine. Blaine gave him a cocky grin and shrugged. He chuckled and let out a loud sigh.

"Just wondering, who were the assholes who pushed you into the lockers?"

Kurt gave him an exasperated look. "I just told you not to talk to me. It is way too early in the morning for me to be dealing with this. With you."

"You've got forty-five fucking minutes to deal with me until later, Henderson, so you might as well spill the gory details."

The taller boy closed his eyes, slammed his book down on his desk quietly to avoid attracting any attention, and then looked at Blaine irately. "The same assholes that do things to everyone in this school, I've noticed. Who else do you think pushes people into lockers?"

Blaine's face darkened a little, but he shook it off. "Karofsky and Azimio?" he said, his voice a little quieter. Kurt arched a thin eyebrow and rolled his eyes.

"No, Thelma and Louise. What's it to you?" Kurt snorted. Blaine was silent. "So, now that I've told you who my 'perpetrators' were, I would like to finish reading my book. I have an AP Lit quiz next period."

"Yeah, you go ahead read that goddamn book. It's all bullshit. I never liked it. That Stephen Dedalus was one fucked up son of a bitch," Blaine muttered under his breath. Kurt blinked and stared at him, obviously shocked. _Let him be shocked_, Blaine thought, slightly panicking.

Blaine stood up immediately, to Kurt's surprise and walked up to Mr. Schuester's desk. Kurt leaned his head into the aisle to see what was going on, his face wrought with both worry and confusion. He looked over to Finn and Rachel, who noticed this as well. They gave him questioning looks and he merely shrugged.

Blaine's voice echoed loud and clear in the classroom, and some students actually looked up from their conversations. "Mr. Schue, can I go to the bathroom?"

"_May _I, Blaine. Not 'can I,'" Schuester pointed out. Blaine rolled his eyes, hands digging into his pockets.

Blaine gritted his teeth in frustration. "_Fine. May _I go to the bathroom?"

Schuester nodded and as Blaine walked out of the classroom, he said loudly, "Come back, okay?"

Kurt and everyone in the room knew he wasn't going to come back.

* * *

><p><em>Q. Bleachers. Now. –B<em>

_What? I'm in Hoffman's homeroom. Wait. –Q_

Blaine slumped down behind the bleachers, running his hands through his hair, frustrated, stuffing his phone back in his jeans. He pulled a cigarette out of his jacket pocket and lit it. The bell for passing period rang loudly, and he peeked out from underneath the seats of the metal bleachers, looking around for who he was looking for.

Of course, David Karofsky was skipping classes. There he was, big and bulky in his red, letterman jacket, hurrying across the field before Reddy's second period ran out of the gym.

Blaine knew what he was doing was stupid. Damn his instincts. He threw his cigarette aside and went for it.

As soon as the large boy reached the bleachers Blaine was hiding under, Blaine jumped out from behind and seized him by the cuff of his jacket, pulling him underneath. Karofsky let out a yelp, but Blaine had the upper hand, despite being shorter, pulling a small switchblade out of his jacket. With Karofsky pinned to the metal fence by Blaine's arm and struck dumb, the shorter boy knew he was going to win this one.

"You think of pushing Henderson or his brother around, and I fucking swear, Karofsky, I will cut you. Cut you up so bad that you won't be able to function at all."

"What's your fucking problem, Anderson?" Karofsky managed to splutter. "I just pushed the homo into the lockers—"

"—He's not a fucking _'homo,' _Karofsky. Can't you see that? So when I let you go, you better _swear _not to even think of _pushing, kicking, hurting him in any way_, or _calling _him…or his brother…any derogatory names, I _will _find you. This includes Azimio too. The next time Elijah fucking Henderson walks into homeroom or any class with a fucked up shoulder or a slushie doused all over his face…"

Karofsky's eyes widened. "I got it, I got it! Damn, Anderson, since when did you have a vocabulary? And what's up with you getting all fucking protective over the Hendersons? Got a crush? You a homo?" he leered, trying to be brave.

Blaine bit his lip, but still retained his bearing. He pulled Karofsky closer to him. "No. I'm just so _fucking_ tired of the two of you fucking around." He pushed the bulky boy away from him, and Karofsky, frightened, backed away slowly.

"You better not tell anyone…fucking _anyone_ about this. And I am _not_," Blaine snapped, "a _'homo_'. You tell anyone: let's just say that shit will go down faster than you can say 'help,' Karofsky."

Karofsky flushed and backed up a little more, and then ran off. Quinn walked behind the bleachers almost simultaneously, confused. Blaine, flushed, breathing heavily, plopped down, folding and stuffing his switchblade back in his pocket.

"What the hell, Blaine?" Quinn hissed. "What just happened?"

"Nothing."

She sat next to him, rubbing his back as he pulled out yet another cigarette. She knew better not to ask. Quinn Fabray knew what was going on.

Or, at least she thought she knew.

* * *

><p>Kurt sat in his AP Literature class, scribbling down notes on the different types of literary devices. The teacher had taken a break and left them notes to copy. The quiz for <em>Portrait <em>had been easy, he thought, and felt confident when he turned it in. He adored his literature class so far—and it was only the second day—and he was sure when the exams came around before next summer, he would easily get a four or five. No one in the room was disruptive—he felt much more comfortable being around studious students who didn't care about him being a new student—

The door opened, and Blaine Anderson walked in, thirty minutes late. No one in the room batted an eyelash at him.

His jaw dropped as the teacher, Mr. Jacobson, frowned, and pointed to the empty seat in the back, handing him a copy of the quiz. Blaine avoided Kurt's gaze and slumped down in the back, already getting a head start on his quiz.

Within five minutes, Blaine was finished. Mr. Jacobson took the paper, nodded, and whispered to him, "_Just copy down the notes on the board."_

The teacher and Blaine started talking in hushed, serious tones, and Kurt couldn't help but strain his ears to try and figure out what was going on.

"…_weren't here yesterday…"_

"_I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't feeling well…"_

"…_You're lucky you're incredibly intelligent, Blaine, and passing this class with flying colors, but you need to _actually _sit in for the lectures…"_

Kurt tuned out immediately, scowling. _What?_

Mr. Jacobson and Blaine ended their conversation with the elder man patting Blaine on the shoulder and pointing him back in the direction of the seat.

Kurt turned to face his 'student helper'.

Blaine, for the first time in two days, didn't bother to look back.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Elijah!"<p>

Kurt froze in the middle of the quickly emptying hallway and turned around, hands clutching the strap of his backpack tightly. He loosened his icy stance when he realized that it was just Rachel Berry running up to him, eager and bright-eyed, just like she was yesterday. He half-expected Finn to be with her.

"Hello, Rachel," he said hesitantly.

Rachel folded her hands together and gave him a bright grin. "I know this may come as quite a surprise, but I got you an audition for the New Directions right after school! You and Michael both!"

The taller boy stared at her, horrified. It took a moment for him to register what she just said. "Wait...you what? You haven't even heard me sing yet…I…I'm terrible. And so is Michael. We're both not interested." He turned on his heel and started to walk away towards the cafeteria to meet up with Finn, but Rachel grabbed his wrist and looked at him, eyes pleading.

"Michael told me you're an amazing singer and was one of the leads of your old chorus. And…I see that you're already starting to feel the loneliness McKinley High tends to invoke within new students. Despite your attempts to pass off _my_ glee club—"

"_Your _glee club?"

"Mr. Schue's glee club. Excuse me, the '_my_' tends to slip quite often—"

"—I'm sorry, Rachel. Why don't you ask someone else?" Kurt was starting to get annoyed, pulling his wrist away from her grasp.

"We've already tried. Unfortunately, our efforts have been futile because the lack of support for the arts in this school is incredibly appalling—"

"I…I see," Kurt's heart fell at the sound of this. "I'm sorry. I can't help you. I'm…I'm not a singer. Michael was probably talking about my excellent karaoke voice—"

_Thank god for being a theater kid_, Kurt thought to himself. _Improvisation, I love you.  
><em>

"Karaoke voice or not, we need more _males _in the club."

_Can't help you in that department, sweetie_. "I should go…" He started to walk away from her, but she ran in front of him, blocking his way, no matter where he tried to escape. "Christ, Rachel, what's your problem?"

"I can tell that you're lying."

He froze. "What?" _Oh, god, please don't, please…please…it's only the second day. _

"I am looking for a potential male lead to match my vocal skills, and it seems that either you or your brother have what I am looking for. You can sing. Well. You have that…that _singer's aura_ about you, Henderson. I should know; I'm an excellent singer. "

He relaxed. "How astute of you. That must be my cologne. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"We've tried getting people to join. We even tried getting…" she lowered her voice, "_Blaine Anderson _to try last year…but…you know how he is…" she trailed off bitterly. Kurt's interest suddenly piqued.

"Blaine Anderson…a singer?"

Rachel shrugged and the two of then started walking down the hallway towards the cafeteria together. "Well, we heard he used to sing at his old school, which is weird, considering where he came from…but that was all gossip and whatnot. His voice is probably messed up now, considering he smokes an entire pack every day, or at least, that's what I've heard—"

They turned a corner. "Where did he transfer here from?"

The shorter girl hushed her voice again, looking around her. "It's a sore spot, a taboo, so everyone tends to look around when they say the school's name: the Dalton Academy Reform School for Boys. It's in Westerville."

"We drove by Westerville from the airport," Kurt said, surprised.

"I see. Everyone who drives by that school gets a weird chill when they pass it. Security guards everywhere, barbed wire fence…without those two elements it would look like your average, incredibly wealthy preparatory school… which it _was_, before the founding family of the school went bankrupt and the government bought it," Rachel babbled on. "Blaine came here late in the second semester of freshman year. He was bad news as soon as he walked through the main doors of McKinley High."

Kurt's mouth opened, forming a little 'o'. "I…see. Wow. That's a lot of information to digest…" he muttered to himself. _Well, you'd…he's straight. He's straight. And you should act straight, too. Wait, what?_

"Hmmm?" Rachel asked, looking back at him.

"Nothing, Berry, nothing," he said distractedly. "Did you know he's in Advanced French and AP English Lit?"

"That's…strange," Rachel cocked her head to the side, incredibly surprised. "Didn't expect him to be in advanced classes at all, considering his grades…"

"…_You're lucky you're incredibly intelligent, Blaine, and passing this class with flying colors, but you need to _actually _sit in for the lectures…"_

"You'd be surprised," Kurt muttered. They finally arrived at the cafeteria. Finn was already there, talking to the two cheerleader girls from their P.E. class. Rachel shrunk back behind Kurt, who was taken aback and turned to face her. "What?"

"Santana Lopez and I don't particularly get along. She blamed me for making us lose Show Choir Nationals because I kissed my ex-boyfriend right after the ballad we sang…in front of everyone watching…your probably saw it on YouTube."

Kurt remembered his classmates talking about the '_show choir scandal of the century_' back in New York. "…Wow, Rachel. And yeah, I saw it on YouTube. Knew you looked familiar…Who's your ex?"

"He moved. His name was James Stanton. Thank god he moved," she said, taking a deep breath. "Anyway…" she said as they walked into the lunch line and grabbed trays. "Elijah, please come to the choir room after school and audition for the New Directions with Michael. We'd really appreciate it."

"Did you try and convince my brother to join?"

Rachel shrugged. "I think…I think that's what Santana and Brittany are trying to do," she said sheepishly, taking a pre-packaged salad from the lunch line as they slid their trays down. "Anyway, it will look good on your resume if you do a multitude of extra curricular activities your senior year, you know."

"Oh, I already applied for college and got into my first choice."

Rachel's eyes brightened as they held their trays out to the lunch ladies. "Which university?"

_Shit. Shit. Shit, oh fuck. _"The University of Michigan at Ann Arbor…I'm going to major in…uhm…biochemistry."

"Oh, wow, you're a science person! You must be taking AP Chemistry or AP Bio with Mr. McElroy!"

"No, I'm taking…um…human anatomy. My backup major is…er…medicine, in fact," Kurt said, nodding his head. "Listen, Rachel, I've got to go rescue my brother," he said, cocking his head towards Finn, who was still talking to the two cheerleaders. "Thanks for the offer. I'll consider it…but as for now, no. Sorry, no glee club for me."

Before Rachel could say anything else, Kurt quickly paid for his lunch and hurried towards Finn, tapping his shoulder.

"Hi," the blonde girl, Brittany S. Pierce, said brightly. Kurt smiled and waved.

"Hello, Brittany…Santana."

"Hello there, Pavement Boy. Back to make some sweet, sweet love with the track? Or is the solid tar too scratchy for your squeaky-clean porcelain skin?" Santana asked with a bright smile on her face, arms folded. Finn clapped his brother's shoulder.

"So…um…yeah, I'll think about it. The choir room is by Mr. Schue's classroom, right?"

Brittany nodded. "You've just got to watch out for the magic fairies flying around there 'cause they like to steal your money. Seriously, Lord Tubbington told me about it the other day. They'll only let you pass if you have chocolate coins," she said in a wholly serious tone. Kurt and Finn looked at each other confusedly, and then back at her. Santana gave the boys a '_listen to her, this is completely normal' _look.

"Thanks!" Finn said brightly. They waved goodbye to the girls and tried to find a table to sit at as quickly as possible. When they finally found an empty circular table near the back, they sat down at it and started eating.

"Seriously, F…Michael, are you going to try out for the glee club?"

Finn looked up at him from his chicken with a guilty look. The edges of Kurt's mouth drooped and he stared at his brother blankly.

"I take that…as a yes."

Finn quickly swallowed his food and blabbed, "Kurt, like, you know how we were talking about extra school stuff and all of that yesterday? I really need something to put on my college applications and since I can't do basketball like at Brenton—"

Kurt's eyes seemed to flare for a moment, and something within him raged. "—Why don't you just try out for something relatively academic, like debate? Come _on_, Fin—Michael—there are _other _things to do!"

"You're just jealous that you can't do glee or anything that you're good at. This glee shit might be something I might be able to do. You even told me I had a decent voice, so I'm just going to try this and see if it works out. And I signed up for football earlier, too, 'cause I didn't do _that _back in our old school."

"That's still a sport you could get national recognition under," Kurt snapped. "You're not being fair, Finn—"

"What the fuck, Kurt? I _am _being fair, I'm doing something I've _never _done before, and not risking things and all of that shit."

"Glee club nationals are in _New York_!"

"That's in, like, a year! And, you never know, what if we don't make Nationals?"

"So you can't do it, because—because we'd be discovered!"

"The Lopez family is after _you_, Kurt, and not my ass," Finn countered.

"Fine. If you're trying out, then I'm trying out."

Finn looked hurt and retorted, his voice hushed and angry, "Why are you being so goddamn selfish? You know you fucking can't! And find something else to do and actually try and make some friends, stop living in New York, and get your shit together! Jesus, Ku—Elijah! It's only our second fucking day at this school, and you haven't even _tried _to, like, you know…fit in."

Kurt sat there in silence. Finn shook his head, stood up, and picked up his tray.

"Michael, I'm sorry."

"I'll see you in P.E.," Finn grumbled, walking off. Kurt watched as he headed to Rachel Berry's table and the group graciously welcomed him.

He longed to be there.

Fighting back tears and trying to compose himself, he picked up his tray, and walked straight out the doors of the cafeteria, and towards the boy's restroom.

* * *

><p>Again, it was lunchtime. As always, Blaine skipped it, preferring to lounge about in the halls where nobody walked at this hour—which was because everyone preferred their nutrition to walking around in the empty hallways, alone. Quinn had gone ahead with The Skanks to the nearest convenience store to buy—rather, shoplift—some cigarettes and booze for later consumption. Even the teachers were all in the lounge, stuffing their faces, so Blaine loved that he could walk around in peace for forty-five minutes.<p>

And think in peace.

He was in desperate need of thinking time.

_Why _had he threatened Karofsky behind the bleachers earlier? Why was he defending Elijah Henderson? Blaine didn't know. Something within him _made _him do it. It was _that_ again, the thing he was trying so hard to repress for nearly four years now, the thing that drove his family crazy, drove his mother to die of a heart attack, drove his father to hate him, drove said father to send him to reform school for no goddamn reason, drove _him_, Blaine, to try and prove to his douche bag, conservative piece of shit of a father that there were _worse _things than _that_—

Blaine was walking down the stairs and was in dire need of a piss, so he turned a corner as soon as he reached the first floor by the cafeteria, and ducked into the bathroom. As he stood in his stall and finished his business, he went out to wash his hands quickly, and turned off the bathroom's smoke detector and opened the small window so that he could grab a smoke—and that was when he heard it, the clattering of a fork, and the mutter of the word _shit_. He froze at the sound of the voice, recognizing it immediately despite it being only one _fucking _day since they met—

As Elijah Henderson walked out of the bathroom stall, carrying his lunch tray, Blaine looked down immediately and pretended to pull out a cigarette, lighting it immediately to calm his nerves.

"You know, you can't smoke in a school bathroom. Or anywhere in the confines of the school," he said in his unusually high voice. Blaine tensed, puffing out smoke.

"You know," Blaine mocked, "that you can't eat in a bathroom stall. That's fucking gross."

"Not as gross as your smoking. Quite frankly, I think it's a life-ruiner."

"Thank god for that," Blaine said, annoyed. "What the hell are you doing, eating in here anyway?"

"What the hell are you doing here, smoking in here?" Henderson quipped, his face turning red. For some reason, Blaine suddenly felt…_aroused…_at the sudden flush of the other boy's cheeks and cleared his throat, trying to focus on the smoke again, as Quinn told him to the night before.

"Tou-fucking-ché," Blaine mused, leaning against the tiled wall. Henderson stared at him, frowning. "What?"

"I just…I suggest you quit smoking and get on with your life—fix it up," the taller, pale boy said with a seemingly disdainful sniff.

"You don't know anything about me, Henderson," Blaine said roughly, his breathing slightly erratic—thank god it wasn't that noticeable.

"I'm not assuming anything," Elijah said quietly. "See you…um, around."

And with that, Henderson walked out of the bathroom in a flash as the end-of-lunch bell rang loudly, leaving Blaine alone with his thoughts.

_Fuck_, Blaine thought sliding down against the wall, trying hard to breathe.

* * *

><p>"'<em>See you<em>,'" Kurt muttered under this breath as he walked out of the bathroom, clearly breathless. _Seriously, Kurt, the only thing you can say is 'see you.' And why the hell were you so nice to him? He's been nothing but a total dirt bag to you the past two days. And no, he is not—well, he is handsome, but you can't like him. He's out of your reach. He's not gay, and you're _pretending _not to be. You're doing a wonderful job. Plus, you should stop running thought monologues through your head because people might think you're crazy_.

He walked into the cafeteria, dumped his tray in the proper receptacle, and hurried out to his next class, AP Calculus.

Weaving through the crowd of people laughing and talking in the halls, he saw Karofsky and Azimio walking in his direction. Quickly ducking, Kurt saw that Karofsky merely looked at him and kept on walking away. Azimio was about to make a move, but Karofsky held out a hand to stop him.

"Man, I though we was gonna push Bieber again!" he heard Azimio groan out loud.

"Dude, he's not worth it" was what Kurt heard the hulking dynamo respond with.

Surprised, Kurt walked back into the mainstream flow of the student body, and to his class.

* * *

><p>"LAPS! TEN OF 'EM, AROUND THE TRACK! <em>Come on, ladies!"<em> Coach Reddy shouted as the seventh period P.E. class hurried out of the gymnasium. Finn had ignored Kurt when they were in the locker room, and had gone ahead to the track without him. Angrily, Kurt lagged behind the rest of the class, breathing heavily as the sun beat down on his skin. _Going to need to extend my moisturizing routine and get an SPF 500 sunscreen tonight._

He saw Finn run ahead with the two cheerleaders, Brittany and Santana. Sighing, he picked up the pace and sprinted towards Finn as fast as he could. For a split-second he thought he saw tufts of curly black hair behind the bleachers, but kept on running, trying to push the skills he earned through tenth grade cross country to catch up with his brother.

Kurt let out a strangled shout, "Fi—Argh, Michael!" Finn turned around, and the two girls kept on running.

The taller boy slowed down and let his brother catch up with him. He and Kurt began running side-by-side.

"So," Finn said, his tone icy-cold, "What do you want?"

"I'm sorry—about—earlier," Kurt panted as they turned a corner. "I'm really, really sorry. I shouldn't have lashed out at you like that. I was frustrated, I was terrible, I know, and I—"

Finn sighed. "You sprinted all the way here, when you haven't sprinted in about two years, just to tell me 'sorry'? Could have told me before dinner," he joked. Kurt frowned at him.

"Seriously, though, I was being selfish."

"Couldn't have told me otherwise," Finn snorted.

"So...forgive me?"

Finn shrugged. "Maybe."

Kurt gaped at him. "Come on, I sprinted here. You know how I look when I sprint."

"Like an epileptic duck. Yeah, that's how you look when you sprint."

Kurt punched him.

"Ow! Fine. I forgive you," Finn sighed. "I know the glee club stuff is a sore spot for you."

They turned a sharp corner. "It is. But...I'll get more performance time at NYADA, anyway, so what's one year?"

Finn smiled at him softly. "Thanks."

They both shared a brief fist-bump, and Finn cleared his throat loudly. "But…yeah…I kinda need some help."

"Don't ask me about girls. Wouldn't know a thing," Kurt said, holding his hands up defensively as they continued to run. "Oh, god, it's too hot out here. I am going to take a nice, long shower in the locker room after this."

"Didn't need that mental image in my head, bro," Finn grimaced. Kurt pushed him gently. "And it's not about girls. My audition is right after this."

"Oh, your glee club audition. Wondering what song to sing? I suggest you pick one of your scrub-a-dub-dub tunes. One of those would work. Journey, perhaps? _You're The One That I Want _from _Grease_? I swear I heard you sing that one time after one of our family movie nights."

"Shhh, don't say that out loud," Finn panted. "Probably gonna stick to Journey."

"Good choice."

When they finally hit the checkpoint and walked to the nearest water fountain, Kurt pulled a soft towel out of his pocket and dabbed his face and neck gently. "So goddamn hot out here."

"Kurt, why don't you go with me to the…um, glee audition? I don't know what to do at these things, so I was wondering if you could sit and watch, I guess? Sorry if that's, uh, selfish or anything, but…yeah."

Kurt let out a long sigh before they stretched and continued to run. "Couldn't have worded it as eloquent as you. Sure."

Finn clapped his brother's shoulder. "Thanks. Oh, and are those football dudes and that Anderson guy still bugging you?"

Kurt shrugged. "No. No, they're not." He bent down to tie his shoes.

"That's good, 'cause we've got to at least survive the first week of school," Finn smirked. He turned around and saw Brittany and Santana stretching behind him; Santana was on her phone, talking in rapid Spanish to someone.

"¡_Ay, no, t__í__a—ay dios mio! No me ve__í__a. _Damn it…_Lo siento…lo siento. __¿__Roddie_? _Argh. Estupido. _"

Kurt froze in place, hands lingering on his laces.

Finn stared at him confusedly. "What?"

He resumed tying his shoes. "Nothing. I'm just hearing things."

_It's all a coincidence. It's all a coincidence. _

"COME ON, PEOPLE, GET YOUR ASSES BACK ON THAT TRACK! YOU HAVE FIVE MORE LAPS TO GO!"

Kurt ran ahead of Finn, who tried to catch up clumsily.

He ran faster than he ever did before, around the track, until the bell rang.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong>

OH, BLAINE, YOU DRIVE ME INSAAAANE. And yes, Agent Malone is Duke Whitely's (from INGTH2DWY)-much older-step-brother. No, there will be no Duke in this story, sorry. I don't want to bog people down with my OCs! Plus, Duke would be in college at this point, so he wouldn't have met Klaine yet...and whoops, I'm talking about a whole entire different 'verse of mine now ;p

Up next: Finn's glee club audition...with a twist. An AP English project is introduced. Blaine has issues.

Review?


	5. Disenchanted

_*peeks out from behind laptop in a shady alley*  
><em>

_Hi, everyone! I'm so sorry for the delay for this chapter. I've been going through academic hell at school-I pretty much have 392482304935 projects and essays to do-as required by the IB Diploma program. __But, fret not, for I have started about half of Episode Six already, so expect that in two or three weeks._

_This chapter was a little bitch to right, to be honest, and it didn't exactly end where I initially intended it to..._

_...it was initially 10k+ words, but the last bit I cut off seemed to fit well with how I wanted to start Episode Six, so...hehe.  
><em>

_Also, a **thousand-no, an infinite number of thanks** to my fantastic beta, **Cori** (Cori-Ackles here on FF), and my very close friend (who I have known since elementary school), who prefers to go by **Unboundy** (unboundpen here on FF), for helping me out with a few dialogue things in the beginning when I was stuck in a rut. _

_I hope you enjoy this chapter! I am still pretty overwhelmed about the response for this story; thank you all so much!_

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Glee. It is owned by RIB, FOX, and its affiliates. __Also, I do not own the songs used in this story at all._

* * *

><p><strong>Witness Protection Problem<strong>_  
><em>by littlemusings  
>Episode Five: <em>Disenchanted<em>

* * *

><p>Kurt quickly showered in the boys' locker room and got dressed back into his jeans and t-shirt as fast as he could. Looking over his shoulder and to his sides quickly, he let out a sigh of relief when he saw that the other boys were still walking—in pure <em>snail-like<em> fashion, he thought thankfully—towards the locker room through the wide expanse of the gym.

After reassuring himself that no one was around, he pulled out his small bottle of moisturizer, and squeezed out a pea-sized drop of the substance onto the palm of his hand. Right when he was about to rub it onto his cheeks, a voice rang out in the empty room:

"Kur—I mean, Elijah?"

Kurt jumped and let out a little squeak, and the little drop of precious moisturizer—_Oh, goddamn it all_—slipped off his hand and dropped onto the floor with a tiny s_quelch_. Frustrated, he looked up and saw Finn standing before him, still in his P.E. uniform, his eyebrows raised.

"Dude, calm down. It's just me."

"Don't call me 'dude,'" Kurt hissed, taking a sharp intake of breath. "And obviously, I can see you in all of your giant glory, so there's obviously no need to tell _me _twice."

Finn snorted, opening his locker to grab his towel and clothes. The other boys in the class began to file into the locker room; their voices filling the air with raucous shouts and randomly exchanged obscenities (_"No, dude, I banged Lopez last weekend", "Yeah, you should totally go for that—I hear she does this thing with her tongue."_).

"You…you okay? You looked pretty freaked out on the track earlier, like you were running from the FBI or something…" Finn muttered under his breath. Kurt slammed his locker shut and picked up his backpack and duffel bag, letting out an exasperated sigh. The voices seemed to ring louder in the locker room.

_("I want that one senior chick's ass." "Which one?" "The brunette, the one in Nude Erections." "Gross, Rachel Berry?"_)

Kurt's eyebrows knitted into a frown when he heard the witless banter being thrown about. "I thought I heard something," he said as he began to head out of the locker room.

_("I would rather bang a stripper pole than go within a ten-mile radius of that shit. She's got a mouth bigger than Sam Fucking Evans." "That's a good thing, though, isn't it?" "You know what I heard? She doesn't have a gag reflex." _Kurt flinched upon hearing this.)

Finn quickly pulled his pants and shirt on, and grabbed his backpack, closing his locker quickly. He caught up with Kurt, who was looking overtly distressed and exhausted as he wove through the large crowd of students exiting their classrooms upon the ringing of the bell.

"What 'something' did you hear?" Finn asked, lowering his voice. Kurt rolled his eyes and turned to face his brother.

"Listen, _Michael_, I don't think I can watch your audition. Big…big project for Advanced French to do tonight," Kurt said dismissively with a wave of his hand. "But…break a leg and tell me if you get in or not, okay?"

He turned on his heel, but before he took a single step forward, Finn took a hold of his shoulder and spun him around.

"Damn it, Kurt, what's wrong?" he hissed, holding him by the shoulders. Kurt wriggled out of his grasp and ran a hand through his tousled hair. He looked around and ducked through the crowd, finally reaching his locker. Finn stood next to him, eyebrows knitted into a frown.

"While…while I thought that Santana's last name being 'Lopez' was totally normal, considering the fact that manypeople have the same last name, you know, 'Woo, small world,' and that she would be totally innocuous, give or take a few snappy quips, I heard her talking in Spanish to her aunt, or something—I heard '_tía_' and the name…the name 'Roddie' and she called him '_estupido_'."

"Maybe she has a gassy uncle named 'Roddie' who wouldn't…listen and go to the bathroom?" Finn said offhandedly, letting out a snort. "Calm _down_, Kurt, it's a small world. What if 'Roddie' was a nickname for 'Riddick' or something, like the dude who played Triple-X? Vin Diesel?"

"Oh, god, that's stupid. How would _you _know that?" Kurt whispered, pulling books out of his locker and stuffing them into his backpack. "What _if_, Michael? What _if_? We've fallen into a trap. It's inevitable. I'm going to die before I become the CEO of Logo. Wait, you weren't supposed to hear that."

Finn hesitated before patting his brother's back. "Come on. Calm down. Maybe hearing people sing or something'll calm your nerves."

Kurt deadpanned, "Rather, it'll make me even more depressed than ever. Come _on_, Santana's in that club. Do you expect me to go in there and say 'Oh, hey! I pretty much put your cousins-brothers-uncles-'insert other male relative type' in jail back in New York because they're sick bastards'? No. No way. I'm just going to paint myself as a target, and then kaboom, we're all going to get shot in a firing line by her family—"

Finn's eyes widened. "Whoa, scary Kurt."

"She's probably going to check out the news later. My picture's going to be there somewhere, I know it. And my name. And she's going to stalk and talk to people from Brenton to get information, but then again, I don't exist there anymore—and neither do you, dad, or Carole—"

"—Kurt—"

"I'm not Kurt!" Kurt said in a strangled voice. He took a deep breath and dug his face into his locker, people watching be damned. "Oh, Jesus. I'm already going crazy."

Finn's eyes widened. "Breathe. Come on. Breathe. You _are_ Kurt. You're Kurt Hummel," he said, lowering his voice. "This 'Elijah' person is just a…a…"

"Momentary façade?"

"Yeah, whatever that is. Still breathing over there?"

"Obviously, or I'd be one of two things: blue and writhing, or dead and lying on the floor," Kurt deadpanned in return.

"Just because she may or may not be related to Rodrigo and Edward Lopez doesn't mean she's entirely evil or something," Finn quipped. "Damn, breathe. _Breathe. _You're usually so much calmer than this, and not this scared."

"You'd be scared, too, if your life were being threatened like this," he said. Kurt exhaled loudly, his hand lingering on his locker door.

"We're being protected 24/7. Who knows? Maybe Motto's passing off as a bangin' hot substitute teacher or something, or that new Malone guy strangled the old janitor and is passing off as him now…"

Kurt let out a little chuckle, relaxing a little.

"Okay. Fine. I'll go with you for _sure_. Maybe I am over thinking."

"You are. You always over think."

Finn smiled and patted his shoulder, but Kurt held up a warning finger, and he ceased immediately. Kurt closed his locker and looked at him warily.

"Thanks, Kur—Elijah. Man, I gotta stop messing up."

"Yes, you do, Michael. And, you owe me. Big time."

"I have one question, though…"

"Spill it."

"What does '_innocuous'_ mean?"

Kurt face-palmed himself and responded, "'Harmless.' Ha, there's a new word for you. Use it to impress Rachel."

"That sounds like a good idea."

"Challenge accepted?"

"Yeah, dude, challenge accepted."

"I told you to not call me 'dude'!"

* * *

><p>In Kurt's opinion, the choir room was ridiculously small, and paled in comparison to the large, echo-y one at Brenton Academy. The choir room was quite long, and three rows of rafters were flush against a dark maroon wall. Kurt grimaced at the color scheme: <em>It should all be white, pure, striking white. Black seats, black risers. Hmmmm…<em>

_Yet_, he thought, it felt like home. A grand piano was smack-dab in the middle of the room, and a small band was setting up in a corner. Sheet music was laid out on a nearby table, and Kurt resisted the urge to walk over and look at it all—he tried to resist the urge to even _touch_ the paper, or move from his stationary position by the choir room door.

He let Finn walk in first, and he watched as his brother said hello and fist-bumped some of the people who were there.

And in that moment, Kurt averted his attention from the apparent unattractiveness of the room to the people sitting in the chairs laid out on the rafters.

On the front row sat an Asian girl with brown, highlighted hair, and next to her was a tall and gangly Asian boy, who was busy whispering something in her ear. _Boyfriend and girlfriend, _Kurt surmised. Next to them was a stocky, muscular boy with a Mohawk—he looked slightly threatening as he fist-bumped Finn, but a pearly-white smile quickly dissipated his monster-like aura. Next to the Mohawk boy sat a boy in a knitted sweater vest, sitting in a wheelchair. An African-American girl sat in the back, texting on her phone and Kurt noticed her bright, neon pink jeans and zebra-striped off-shoulder shirt and winced. _She looks like a Technicolor zebra. Must. Resist. The Urge. To—_

"Good afternoon, my fellow Gl—AAARGH!" a loud voice exclaimed, and Kurt felt the force of a tiny body topple into him, papers scattering all over the place. He fell forward; face-first on the white tile and shot his head back up immediately, spluttering. He heard the entire Glee club break out in snickers.

He looked up as Rachel Berry sprung up, dusting herself off. "At least I didn't fall and break my ta—OH, ELIJAH! You're here to audition?" she exclaimed, holding a hand out for him. Kurt took it angrily and hoisted himself up, helping Rachel pick up the fallen sheet music.

"No, I'm not. I'm here to support my brother," he said, huffing. "Jesus Christ, Rachel, look before you enter a room, okay?"

"Everyone, if you have not met them already, meet Elijah and Michael Henderson," Rachel said in a commandeering fashion, waving her hand to the two brothers. The boy with the Mohawk let out a loud snort.

"Dude, Rachel, I met Michael in math class. But, 'sup, Elf?" he said, nodding his head towards Kurt, whose mouth dropped open.

"Excuse me—?"

"Noah Puckerman," Rachel said quickly, pushing Kurt deeper into the room.

Noah Puckerman made a face. "Puck, if you know what's best for you."

"I'm Tina Cohen-Chang," the Asian girl trilled.

"Mike Chang," the Asian boy said. "And, before you jump to conclusions, we aren't related," he said, gesturing towards Tina, who laughed.

"Mercedes Jones," the girl in the pink jeans called out, without looking up from her mobile.

"Artie Abrams, bro," the boy in the wheelchair said, waving a strange gangster-like symbol in the air with his hand.

"Elijah," Kurt said quickly. "Elijah Henderson, as Rachel so duly noted. But…I'm not here to audition, really—"

"Nonsense!" Rachel scoffed, pushing him down on a chair next to her. Kurt looked to Finn helplessly—his brother merely shrugged and gave him a wary smile.

"_Really_, Berry, I'm not here to—"

"Oh, god, who started World War III?" a loud, female voice drawled. Kurt went rigid as he watched Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce (_not _Spears_, not Britney Spears,_ Kurt thought to himself). Santana stood by the door; her hand was on her hip, looking at the papers that were still on the floor. She looked back at Rachel. "Was it you, hobbit? Hopping around and causing useless mayhem so you could get back Isengard as soon as possible?"

Rachel frowned and stood up, picking up the papers quickly. "Your tactless jabs do not—and will _never_—affect me, Santana," she said stiffly, haughtily walking back to her seat next to Kurt, who was still trying to control his breathing.

"Whatever, Yentl," Santana snorted, sitting down next to Noah Puckerman. "Oh—wait, Pavement Boy and his brother are here to audition? Holy _shit_."

"Nah, just me," Finn—Michael—pointed out, looking over to see if Kurt was okay. Kurt nodded quickly, cracking a small smile.

"Not really the singing type," he said, dropping his voice an octave. No one seemed to notice.

"Hm, I thought otherwise, because you were screaming 'Oh, mercy,' at the pavement during P.E., or so it seemed—sounded like sweet love music to me," Santana said with a sickening sweetness, a prim smile on her lips. Kurt gave her a seething look and folded his arms, biting back a retort.

"Come on, babe—stop messing with the new kids," a voice chastised.

A split-second after Santana's quip, a tall and muscular blonde boy (_with a large mouth_, Kurt thought amusedly) entered the room, and took a seat in the back next to Santana, who immediately spun in her seat, resting her legs on his lap. _Hm. Dating_, Kurt deduced.

"I was just welcoming the new blood, guppy lips," Santana shrugged. "When I _wants_ to get my welcome on, I _do_."

And, with that, she promptly locked her lips with his. Kurt grimaced and looked away immediately.

"Sam Evans," Rachel said quietly, whispering in Kurt's ear. "Santana's boyfriend."

"I can see that," Kurt said, in equal parts annoyed and disgusted.

The club broke out into penniless banter, everyone talking about different things. Mercedes, Artie, Tina, and Mike were in deep discussion about the latest Beyonce album, Finn, Puck, and Sam started talking about sports, and Brittany and Santana were in deep conversation about something serious—Kurt could only suspect what they were talking about. Santana paused at regular intervals to kiss Sam squarely on the lips.

He sat firmly in his seat, trying not to interact with anyone.

_Finn seems to be doing quite fine. Oh, god, what is Santana's problem? Eugh, gross, I just saw some tongue. Makes me want to become asexual and never date. Mercedes needs to change that entire outfit. It's flashier than a—_

Rachel's loud and raucous voice broke him out of his reverie.

"So, what are you going to sing?" she asked brightly. Kurt let out a deep sigh and looked her squarely in the eyes.

"I. Am. Not. Auditioning," he said slowly and carefully, trying to level his voice. "Do. You. _Understand_?"

Rachel frowned. "Fine, then. What is your brother going to sing?"

"Why don't you ask him? Talk to other people?"

She shrugged. "He's busy talking to other people—and those other people are talking to him."

"I am trying to hear myself _think_."

"I know what's going on in your mind, Elijah," Rachel said, with a disdainful sniff.

Kurt snorted. "Yeah. Yeah, whatever."

Suddenly, a look of realization dawned upon Rachel's face—or, at least it looked like an epiphany-related expression.

"You could sway in the background," she said, her eyes widening.

Kurt's eyebrows furrowed into a frown. "Wait, what? Not comprehending here."

"You. Sway. In. Background. We need three more people to join Glee club. At this point, we're incredibly desperate—"

"You want me to mindlessly mouth silent harmonies?"

"Yes, if you can't sing, that's _perfectly _fine with me. You know Mike? He can't sing; he only dances. He can do simple harmonies once in a while, however, but obviously his singing skills are not as up to par as Noah's or Sam's, or my ex's."

Kurt let out a highly unattractive snort. Luckily, no one noticed. "Seriously?"

"Yes, seriously!" Rachel said, her eyes widening, her fists clenching in her lap as though dozens of ideas popped up in her head. "We need twelve members or more by sectionals, so—more would be practical, since we could break out into a four-part harmony, depending on the number of members who would grace themselves with our presence—oh, that would be fabulous—"

"—Good afternoon, guys!" Mr. Schuester's voice rang out cheerfully. Everyone stopped talking as the Spanish teacher waltzed into the room excitedly, rubbing his palms together. "Today, we've got someone here to audition for us, is that right, Rachel?"

"Michael Henderson, here," Rachel said happily, looking at Finn with a bright smile on her face. She looked back to Kurt, who grimaced and shrugged. "His brother, Elijah, here, has offered to sway in the background as a substitute until we find actual singers. Though—"

"—Hey!" Kurt called out, taken aback. "I did _not _say that."

"—I'll think about that, Rachel," Mr. Schuester said, slightly taken aback. "So, Michael, show us what you've got."

Finn stood up awkwardly and looked to Kurt, who gave him a small thumbs-up. _You can do it_, he mouthed. Finn cracked a smile and moved to the piano, where a middle-aged man seemed to randomly appear. He whispered the name of the song in his ear, and he nodded as Finn took his position at the middle of the choir room, rolling his shoulders and taking a deep breath.

"That's Brad. He's our piano player," Rachel pointed out. Kurt gave her a reproachful look—as if he were telling her _um, I figured that out._

Finn braced himself and said, "I'm gonna sing _Faithfully _by Journey."

"Sounds good to me," Mr. Schuester said, clapping his hands together excitedly.

Brad the Pianist started the intro of the song, and Finn took a deep breath and began.

_Highway run into the midnight sun  
>Wheels go 'round and 'round; you're on my mind<br>Restless hearts sleep alone tonight  
>Sending all my love along the wire<em>

Kurt's eyes were wide as his stepbrother sang the first verse. His voice wasn't…_bad_, per se, it was…okay. It was pitchy, and as a person who had studied music since he was practically a fetus, Kurt believed that Finn's voice was _slightly_ off. Bearable, but off. Maybe he hadn't listened properly whenever Finn belted out his scrub-a-dub-dub tunes in the shower. Kurt, keeping his bearing, turned his head slightly to face the rest of the club. The Chang duo watched Finn politely, probably a placating gesture.

Santana, however, was obviously surprised: her eyebrows knitted together in a frown and her arms remained tightly folded. Next to her, Puckerman and Sam Evans looked utterly taken aback, their eyes wide. Artie sat there, obviously surprised, his eyes widening, his hands folded in his lap. The blonde cheerleader, Brittany S. Pierce (_not 'Spears'_), closed her eyes and began bobbing her head to the beat of the piano soulfully. Mercedes merely blinked and continued to watch. Mr. Schuester's eyes widened, but nothing in his face read shock or worry like the other glee clubbers'.

Rachel, however, had the most shell-shocked look on her face; her jaw was slightly dropped, and her head was tilted sideways, her expression reminding Kurt of a lost puppy being kicked in the face. _Well, Finn's stock surely plummeted in her eyes_, Kurt said, letting out a sigh.

_I'm forever yours, faithfully_

Upon finishing the song, the glee club clapped, albeit the applause being half-hearted, and Finn stood there, wringing his wrists together, giving his peers a hopeful, yet sheepish look. Kurt let out a quiet sigh and clapped the loudest for his stepbrother.

"Um, good job, Michael," Mr. Schuester said, as the wary cacophony of applause died down. "I…um…"

"I was bad, wasn't I?" Finn said hoarsely, flushing red in the face. Kurt immediately felt sorry for him. "I understand if you guys don't want me in glee, so…yeah…"

"Oh my god, seriously, Michelangelo, you have a fetus face," Santana snorted. "I swear, when you try to reach those high notes, it looks like you're crying for mama."

Mr. Schue let out a heavy sigh. "That's enough, Santana."

"I'm just trying to keep it real here," she retorted, shrugging. Finn shot her a slight frown—Kurt could tell that he was confused. Kurt bit back an insult and proceeded to fold his arms, his eyes flicking back and forth between the other members of the glee club and Finn. _Don't antagonize her_.

Rachel's voice seemed to echo annoyingly across the room.

"You were quite alright…not exactly the male lead I was looking for," she said off-handedly. Kurt suddenly felt the urge to punch her in the face. "But, you do have the potential to get better, so Mr. Schue, I would like to say that having Michael in the club would be potentially beneficial, as we do need more males in the club. I, for one, would be delighted to welcome a new member."

Kurt didn't expect that, but Rachel's continued drivel seemed to mollify him just a little bit.

"He's got that rocker-kinda voice," Puck said, nodding. "I dunno, that'll probably help us if we do some Van Halen or somethin'."

"I agree," Artie replied. "We need some more dude power in here."

"Weren't we gonna do Journey stuff this year anyway?" Sam said, shrugging. "I mean, we could help him and all of that, Mr. Schue."

Kurt let out a loud sigh, leaning back in his chair. Suddenly, the eyes of the entire glee club were on him, including Finn's and Mr. Schuester's. Blinking, he sat up and cleared his throat. "Yes?" he said simply. Everyone turned back to face Mr. Schue.

"Point made, guys—and Rachel," Mr. Schue said, nodding. "Guys, let's welcome Michael Henderson to the glee club."

Rachel's smile and claps were the brightest and loudest in the room. Kurt let out a sigh of relief, clapping as well. Finn gave him a bright smile and Kurt returned it, giving him a thumb up.

"Oh, wait, Mr. Schuester!" Rachel exclaimed, standing up. Everyone slowly fell silent and turned to face her. "How about my proposition about Elijah noiselessly harmonizing in the background? We could use some more members for show, of course, to meet the twelve-or-more-member requirement for the National Show Choir Association."

Kurt looked incredulous and his jaw dropped, but he immediately regained his bearing and cleared his throat. Part of him wanted to do this, to get back into the fold of the arts and music in general, but the other half of him told him that he would be betraying his parents and WitSec, and even if he were harmonizing soundlessly in the background, he still would be a part of the glee club—and he was told not to do things he would normally do. He turned to Finn, who gave him a slightly concerned look…but then:

Finn nodded curtly, his eyes wide and lips pursed together. _Do it_, the expression read.

"Are you fine with that, Elijah?" Mr. Schuester asked; his arms were folded in concern. Kurt blinked several times and took a deep breath.

"Yeah, if you guys are up for it," he said quietly. Rachel threw her arms around Kurt who looked utterly taken aback and nearly fell over in his chair.

"Well. You'd only need to come to choreography rehearsals, and we usually have those three weeks before the competitions," Mr. Schuester said. "But, you're welcome to just hang out here all the time if you want."

_That would be enough_, Kurt thought. "Alright. Alright then," he said, shrugging. Deep inside, his heart was leaping and bouncing all over the place.

He would be in glee. Suddenly, he didn't care that he would be noiselessly harmonizing and dancing in the background—or 'swaying' as Rachel put it—he'd be back in his world of music.

Kurt and Finn exchanged small smiles, and then Mr. Schue said, "Okay, then, guys, let's welcome the Henderson brothers to the glee club! And sectionals are in a month and a half, and we've got to get to work on our set list, so let's go and warm up!"

Everyone hurried over to the piano, and Kurt was the last to come down the risers. Finn patted him on the back.

"You sure about this?" Kurt whispered.

"I'm not telling mom or Burt a thing," he said, grinning and ruffling Kurt's hair. Kurt shot him an angry look, which Finn countered with a snort. They convened with the other glee club members, and Brad the Pianist struck up a set of warm-ups.

"Thanks, Finn."

Of course, Kurt merely hummed along.

* * *

><p>Blaine walked out of Mrs. Janacek's classroom—he had just finished his after-school detention for being tardy and not turning in his pre-calculus homework (also, for talking out of turn—he had said something wildly inappropriate) earlier that day. His punishment was merely sitting down for an hour and a half, doing absolutely nothing (<em>well<em>, he was _supposed_ to be making up for his missed work, but he only did half of the problems and didn't attempt to do the rest), while Mrs. Janacek proceeded to cry (she tried not to make it obvious, but it was somewhat difficult for her to hide her emotions) pathetically over a romance novel. Once his time was up, he nearly bolted out of the classroom, and into the empty hallways of post-bell McKinley High.

He walked with an easy, loping grace towards the main school entrance. Everything was going absolutely _fine _for him until he heard the sound of laughter from a nearby classroom.

_Oh. Of course. The glee club's still fucking around_, he thought, irritated. He quickened his pace, bag slumped over his shoulder, towards the main doors—he wanted to avoid Rachel Berry like the black plague, and of course, Santana, since she was in the club anyway (she'd been texting him since he kicked her out of his Volvo, wanting more 'sexy time')—and that was when he saw Elijah Henderson walk out of the choir room with his lumpy and Frankenstein-tall brother, Michelle—no, _Michael_, that was it—followed by Rachel Berry. Blaine ducked behind a corner and peeked his head out from behind one of the walls and furrowed his eyebrows.

"I'm so glad you two have joined the club," Blaine heard Rachel say in her loud, pretentious voice. "I'm quite pleased that you changed your mind out of all people, Elijah!"

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," he heard Elijah say with a snort.

_Oh_, Blaine thought. _Well, fuck._ He pulled out his phone and waited until the rest of the glee club emptied the hallways, and dialed Quinn's number.

Her tremulous, soft—yet rough—voice drawled from the receiver. "_Quinn fucking Fabray, may I help you?"_

"Looks like the Hendershits joined glee club."

"_Um, and why do I need to know this?_"

"I don't know," Blaine whispered. "I have no fucking clue."

"_Oh, Blanderson. Where are you? I've been waiting for you since school got out."_

"Janacek gave me detention."

"_Oh, I skipped that. I was supposed to go. Didn't know you were there, too or I would have gone. Why didn't you skip out on it?_"

"She and Figgins threatened to call my dad."

"_Bullshit, she didn't pull that on me. My mom wouldn't have been home, anyway," _Quinn said with a snort. Blaine had to hold the phone away from his ear as she laughed. "_Well, Bee, get your ass to the park. We have an important date to attend to, if you didn't remember_."

"Indeed, we do," Blaine muttered. "See you in ten."

"_Make it five._"

"Fuck you."

"_Not on weekdays,_" she said slyly. Blaine chuckled.

"You are truly a sly and conniving little bitch, aren't you?"

"_Exactly why we are in cahoots. Now shut up, Anderson, and get your ass over to the park. Wes and David are nearly here."_

Blaine's expression turned dark. He walked down the hallway and out of the main school building—the glee kids were long gone already. "Tell them to wait up. I'm almost to my car."

"_You know they're not gonna wait up, Bee_," Quinn said seriously. "_You can't fucking expect them to stay behind and wait there. They've only got three hours before Dalton realizes they're missing." _

"Okay, I'm hanging up now," Blaine grumbled. "Bye."

"_Bye._"

* * *

><p>Kurt and Finn walked towards the parking lot with Rachel, who was blabbing on and on about the most random and self-centered things in the world. Kurt had discovered that Rachel was an <em>incredibly <em>talented singer and performer—he figured that out when Mr. Schuester had them review a number they had started last week—in which she had been given the lead. Upon complimenting her, she shot off into a self-impassioned diatribe

"You see, my Two Gay Dads—they spoiled me in the arts," she gushed as they walked towards her car (Kurt was a little taken aback by her pronunciation of the words "Two Gay Dads"—she made the phrase sound like a pronoun). She had offered to drive them home—to Finn's pleasure and Kurt's chagrin—after every glee club practice starting with their first. "I'm a star, and I clearly need to shine, so it is inevitable, with the fantastic combination of my ingénue and my talent, that I am most certainly going to get into my dream school."

"And that is?" Kurt drawled.

"The New York Academy of Dramatic Arts," she said proudly, fishing around in her bag. She pulled out a pristine, white folder, flashing it in Kurt's face. Kurt resisted the urge to laugh, but that sudden burst of happiness was ultimately dampened when he realized that he was already a student—if she got in with them—_oh god, no—_she would figure out everything. _Well, let her figure it out_, he thought to himself. _We might get out of this hellhole right after graduation…_

Rachel handed him her folder, and Kurt took it reluctantly, reading through it. Her resume was pretty impressive—she was right, she _had _taken many music, dance, and theater workshops throughout her seventeen years of existence. "Pretty cool," Kurt said casually, handing it back. "Um, Rachel, where's your car at?"

The shorter girl's eyes widened. "Oh! I nearly forgot, it's right down there," she exclaimed, pointing down the parking lot at a silver Chevrolet.

"Is that…" Finn said, mouth agape.

"A Chevy? Yes, indeed. It was given to me by my dads when I turned sixteen," she said proudly. Kurt proceeded to tune her out as she continued to blab on about her talent, life, whatever. He looked around the parking lot and saw Blaine Anderson walking towards a black Volvo…which was parked right next to Rachel's. It was then he also realized that they were _already_ near Rachel's car. His face flushed red. _Straight. Straight. He's straight, stop it, he's straight_—

Rachel pulled out her keys and pressed a button—the car unlocked immediately. She was about to step in and unlock the other doors for Finn and Kurt when—

"Well, well, well, looks like the Hendersons have joined glee club," Blaine quipped, arms folded as he unlocked his car.

"What's it to you, Anderson?" Finn snapped. Kurt shot Finn a warning glance.

"Yes, we have," Kurt said evenly, keeping his composure. "I don't see _you _doing anything relatively productive."

"Santana Lopez," Blaine said, shrugging. "She's _very _productive." Rachel's mouth dropped.

"That's a terrible thing to say!" she squeaked. "She's dating Sam Evans!"

"…And screwing half the guys in the school," Blaine said with a snort. "Well, fuck you three. I _must_ go and do _othe_r productive things," he added, winking at Rachel, opening the driver's door forcefully. Rachel flushed red and frowned deeply at him.

"You're all talk, Anderson, but you don't really seem to walk the walk," Kurt said loudly. Blaine paused, his hand on his car door.

"Oh, really, Henderson?" he laughed mirthlessly, crossing over to their side so that he was standing directly in front of Kurt. Kurt's breath hitched and his voice seem to catch in his throat—_no, no, no, oh shit_—but he managed to look Blaine in the eye.

"Hey, back off—!" Finn began, but Kurt held up a hand to halt him.

"_Yes_, really, _Anderson_," Kurt said scathingly.

"You don't even know _half _a thing about me, Elijah Henderson, so you better watch your mouth or I _will—_"

"—Will _what_? Throw a punch or two?" Kurt laughed mirthlessly. "Go ahead. Do it. I've tried to be nice to you for about half a week already, but you obviously have abandoned your student helper job. I'm going to abandon the nice act, too, because you're being such a jackass."

Something in Blaine's eyes seemed to change almost instantaneously.

"You know what? Just…fuck you, Henderson," Blaine growled, turning on his heel and opening his car door forcefully. Finn and Rachel grabbed Kurt's arms as he leaned forward and shouted:

"Fuck you, too, Anderson! Better not miss your appointment at Alcoholic's Anonymous! Don't want you aimlessly stumbling around like an idiot—oh wait, you do a pretty good job of doing that yourself!"

Blaine shot him a dirty look (which was barely discernable through the tinted windows of the Volvo), revved his engine, and drove off.

Kurt huffed loudly and Finn and Rachel let go of him.

"I fucking hate him," Kurt spat, opening Rachel's car door. Finn sat shotgun, and Kurt sat alone in the back, arms folded as Rachel started the engine and drove onto the main road.

"Don't mess with Blaine Anderson, Elijah," Rachel said seriously as she turned a corner. "He's nothing but trouble, and I suggest…"

"Don't have to tell me twice," Kurt muttered. "You know what? I tried to be nice. I really did."

Rachel peered at him from her rearview mirror. "I've tried that so many times. He seems impossible to get through. The only person he hangs out with is Quinn Fabray."

"The girl with the pink hair?"

"Yes," Rachel muttered. "She got pregnant with Noah Puckerman's child during sophomore year, and after she had her daughter, things went downhill from there. She gave up her baby, Beth, for adoption, and I don't think she could cope with it all and came back to school junior year with pink hair, what Santana would call a 'tramp stamp,' a trio of girls like her tailing her, and Blaine Anderson as her best friend. She used to be the head cheerleader."

Finn's eyes were wide. "Holy. Shit."

"Yes, 'holy shit,' indeed." Rachel fiddled with her radio as she kept her eyes on the road. "Do you mind if I play some Barbra?"

"—Streisand?" Kurt blurted, without thinking. He and Finn visibly froze in their seats.

There was an awkward bout of silence that soon followed Kurt's comment.

"Yes," Rachel said as she pressed 'play'—her eyes lit up. Streisand's recording of _Not While I'm Around _from "Sweeney Todd"began playing in the car. "How astute of you, Elijah."

"I used to hear our mom talk about her all the time," Kurt lied flawlessly. In his head, he sang along to the words: _nothing's gonna harm you…not while I'm around…nothing's gonna harm you, no, sir, not while I'm around—_

"Your mother must have excellent music taste," Rachel gushed. "I'd love to talk to her about Barbra one time to see if she has all of the songs and movies, or if she's seen the shows she was in—"

"—Oh, she, um, she's pretty busy most days, so she doesn't listen to Barbra as much anymore—I mean," Finn began.

"—What Michael is trying to say is that she pretty much only knows about _Yentl_ and all of that. She's a big fan of, um, Britney Spears stuff at the moment. You know, generic pop shit," Kurt said, attempting to sound casual.

Rachel nodded appreciatively, keeping her eyes on the road. "I see! Oh, where do I turn?" she asked.

"Jackson Street," Finn supplied, pointing eastward. "The cul de sac."

"Oh, that's a lovely place to live," she said. "I assume your family lives in the nice colonial down there?"

Kurt's eyes widened incredulously. "Yeah. Why?"

"It's been for sale for months, but no one could seem to afford it," Rachel said with a shrug as she pulled into the cul de sac.

"Okay," Finn said, bobbing his head.

Rachel finally parked in front of the 'Henderson' household, and Finn and Kurt said goodbye quickly—well, Kurt much quicker than Finn, and she drove away, shouting an overly cheery "See you tomorrow!"

The two boys breathed a sigh of relief as they walked up the path to the patio, where Carole was standing, waiting for them.

Kurt whispered, "Not a word."

"Yeah, not a word," Finn replied, and they both shared yet another fist bump.

* * *

><p>Blaine slammed his car door shut in a huff as soon as he parked by Crestwood Park, which was on the outskirts of Lima. He squinted his eyes, searching for the familiar tuft of short, pink hair, and finally found it by a cluster of birch trees. He looked around suspiciously, and then quickened his pace. Quinn stood underneath one of the oldest trees (he knew this because he frequented the park as a child), taking a long drag of her cigarette, the puffs of smoke reminiscent of the grey and white tie-dye patterns of her long, billowy skirt.<p>

"Q."

"Bee," she breathed, nearly jumping. "Finally you dragged your ass here. Took you long enough."

"Where are they?" Blaine asked, looking around. Quinn furrowed her eyebrows and folded her arms over her dark t-shirt.

"They'll be here in five minutes. Seriously, Bee, what took you so long? You could have gotten here ten minutes earlier."

"Ran into Berry and the Hendersons."

"That sounds like a shit band," Quinn said with a snort. "Did Berry try to convert you to Gleekianity again?"

"Nope," Blaine muttered, pulling out his own cigarette and lighter. "That Elijah kid. The one with the fucking high-pitched voice—he's a fucking douche—"

"Half the people in school think he's gay," Quinn said quietly, interrupting him. She gave Blaine a pointed look and he immediately furrowed his eyebrows and looked away as he began smoking. "What do you think?"

"I'm not going to say anything at all," Blaine snapped. "Don't you fucking dare bring that up again, Quinn Fabray."

"That wasn't my intention," Quinn retorted. "I was just _asking _what you thought, you dipshit."

"Well, I don't think he is," was all Blaine said in reply.

Quinn dropped her cigarette to the ground and stepped on it with her dark ballet flats. "You're deflecting again."

"What the fuck do you mean, 'deflecting'?"

"Nothing. I'm just gonna shut up now because you're being such a dickhead," she said with a wry smile. "There they are," she added, pointing to two figures rushing towards them from the distance. Blaine couldn't help but smile grimly at his two closest friends from the Dalton Reform School for Boys, Wes Kim and David Thompson, hurried closer to them in casual attire—their normal ripped jeans and dark graphic tees.

"Anderson," Wes said curtly, nodding. Blaine cocked his head at the ratty-looking file Wes was holding in his hands. "I've got the documents you need. You better use it to the best of your ability, or I am going to literally catapult shit from my dorm room and kill you if you screw this up and we get caught."

"Nice to see you too, Wesley," Blaine said, laughing unashamedly. "You too, Thompson."

"It took me a shorter time to pick the lock and master code of the main gate, but I got us the hell out of there and we only have three more hours until the gates close," David said seriously. "God, you're milking your freedom, aren't you Anderson?"

Blaine took the file from Wes's hands and opened it: the perfectly made fake IDs and documents for him and Quinn were all set and ready—looking positively immaculate and legitimate. "Freedom's good, but still fucking shit," he said, whistling at Wes's handiwork. "You did good, Kim."

"I'm a fucking pro," Wes said, sniffing indifferently. "Took me a while to get all of the damn stock paper and shit I needed to make these. You owe me. Big time. I had to hide all of the things I needed in different rooms. You know how much of a pain in the ass that was? Jeff was pretty much all over Nick every single time I needed to get the card printer from his room."

"I will shower you with gifts upon your release from the Academy," Blaine said seriously. "We're going to Columbus the night you guys get out. Booze. Coke. You name it."

"I'll make sure to bring the Skanks, too. The Mack's been missing you, Wes," Quinn said, winking. Wes gave her a smirk.

"We get out after Christmas, probably before you guys ditch this shithole for NYC," David said. "But if we get caught right now, we aren't getting out at all, so we gotta go."

"Thanks, guys," Blaine said, nodding curtly. "And seriously? Nick and Jeff? Knew it."

"You're one to talk," Quinn laughed, pushing him playfully. "Always fucking your cheerleader ho in your fancy-shmancy car from daddy…"

"Fuck you, Quinn," Blaine grumbled.

"Hey, I told you: not on weekends."

"A cheerleader, huh, Blaine?" David said, winking. Blaine gave a meager smile and waved them off.

"Get the fuck out of here, you bastards," Blaine said loudly, attempting to silence them. The small group burst out into a cacophony of laughter. The three of them fist bumped and then Wes and David went back on their way to Westerville, a car waiting for them. Probably Thad Harwood's car—the guy got out of Dalton two weeks ago.

Blaine watched as the car drove off, leaving him and Quinn to look at the folder in their hands.

"We've got the fucking tickets, we have the IDs and all the paperwork set," she breathed, holding the fake driver's license in her hand. Blaine gave her a smirk.

"Can't wait to ditch this shithole and get to New York."

The two friends set the file down between them and sat down under the tree, leaning against its trunk.

"You didn't fucking tell them, huh?" Quinn said in slight disgust. "That you've—"

"—I _am_, okay? So shut the fuck up."

"Hey, I'm not the one secretly going to bars on the weekends," Quinn said quietly, "and fucking every guy I can get my hand on."

"I _told _you, I'm—I'm not like that anymore. I don't do that shit. That isn't me," Blaine hissed, keeping his eyes trained on the grass, picking at it in irritation. "Fucking hell, Quinn, why are you bringing this up again?"

"Because you're acting so weird!" Quinn said stubbornly. "You have been since that Henderson kid came and earlier you were all fucking flustered after lunch."

"Was not fucking flustered."

"Was too."

The two sat there in silence for a few minutes.

"Blaine," Quinn said, in a more serious tone, "you know…"

"Don't, Quinn. Don't you dare say anything; I'm not that person anymore."

"Trying to repress that shit is what's been screwing you over for the past two fucking years!" Quinn hissed.

"Shut _up_!" Blaine snapped. Quinn stared at him pointedly, looking him up and down. "I'm not repressing anything, this is who the fuck I am!"

"Fine."

"We're not going to talk about this anymore."

"No, we're not," Quinn said quietly. "So, tell me what happened in the parking lot earlier."

"Elijah Henderson's a dick, Rachel Berry's annoying, and Michelle—I mean, Michael, whatever the fuck he's called, he's just…there."

"Looks like a lamp post."

Blaine chuckled, holding his still-lit cigarette between his fingers. "Quinn," he began.

"What?"

"I'm so fucking confused," Blaine whispered. "I don't know why, but I am."

"Life screws us all over, all the time. We all just have to buck up and deal with it," Quinn said with a shrug. Her tone softened. "If you really think this is who you are, then that's who the fuck you are. Quite frankly, I don't care…you're still Blaine to me."

The ghost of a smile played on Blaine's lips.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note<strong>:

Heh. Heh. Heh. Quaine and Furt bro-ness.

The plot thickens. There will be a small time skip next chapter, and the promised, dreaded AP Lit project.

Quick PSA: I get a little bored while writing about the theory of knowledge and about the Berlin Wall, so drop me some drabble prompts in my Tumblr inbox! My tumblr name is **crissettos. **I won't be posting fangirly things there myself until school ends, so I left my queue on, and I'll go by once a week to check if there are any prompts and any of that good stuff.

ANYWAY, hope you enjoyed this chapter!


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